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Chapter Text

CULLEN

They were leaving together again—the Inquisitor and the Apostate. Everyone at Skyhold knew the drill by now. There was always some excuse: a book to find, an artifact to retrieve, some cryptic Fade-related 'training'. Everyone knew the truth, though. It wasn't about work. They denied the rumors, of course, but it was impossible to miss the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. The way Solas snuck into her quarters at night, and how her tone became tender when his name was mentioned.

Everyone knew.

But what they didn’t know is that her tone softened for him, too.

Cullen sat in his office, lost in thought. He’d been in love with the Inquisitor for what felt like an eternity, but she had never noticed. His boots, still clad in steel, were propped up on his desk—a rare moment of rebellion against the strict discipline he usually maintained. An uncomfortable moment of rebellion, given his outfit. Josephine had insisted on the armor, saying it would give him a more “martial look,” something that would boost morale. And who was he to deny her? But today, the armor felt heavier, like the thoughts that kept him up the night before clung on it, even as the first rays of dawn came in from the tall windows. He was tired already, though it was barely morning. He ran a hand through his tousled curly blonde hair, letting out a long, heavy sigh. His body still felt off, like it didn’t quite belong to him, a lingering effect of the latest lyrium withdrawal episode. He was just trying to gather the energy to start his day when he heard footsteps on the bridge outside his office.

Straightening in his chair, he listened as the visitor knocked.

“Yes?” he called out, his voice carefully controlled, masking the turmoil beneath.

The door opened, and there she was, peeking in with that bright, infectious smile that always managed to lift his spirits, even on the darkest days. The early sunlight streamed through the window, casting a warm glow around her. To him, it was as if the Maker himself was illuminating her. Her soft features, the graceful way she moved—he’s always been struck by how effortlessly she carries herself. She had green piercing eyes capable of softening into the green of spring grass softly bending under the sun, and hardening like the shards of pure Fade magic that would somehow slip out of Fade tears. Her long elven ears were unadorned, and despite her best attempt, a strand of silky white hair would always escape the trappings of whatever contraption she used to put them up for travel. Her eyes were bright and expressive, with long lashes that framed her, her nose petite and often scrunched when she emoted, and her face was roundish, with high cheekbones.

Today, she was dressed for travel, her dark blue tunic modified to suit her Dalish sensibilities, the leather accents emphasizing the curve of her waist, the strength in her limbs. As a Dalish, even as a Mage, she was more fit than the average city elf. The continuous traveling and fighting didn't help. Her white hair fell freely around her shoulders, and those bright green eyes met his with a look of concern that cut through his carefully maintained composure.

She was there because she knew about his struggle with lyrium. She had been there for him, time and again, offering support and friendship, even on the nights when the pain and the cravings were too much to bear. He remembered a particularly rough night two days ago, how she stayed with him, refusing to leave his side.

-

“I have to take it or I’ll have to step down,” he had groaned, pacing restlessly around his office, his mind scattered, his breaths coming too fast and too shallow to be anything close to normal.

“You’re strong enough, Cullen,” she had replied, sitting on his desk, legs crossed, her expression calm. “If you decide to take it again when you’re calm, I’ll support your decision. But right now, you’re not thinking clearly.” She had been so close, and despite the chaos in his mind, he couldn’t help but notice the way she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a simple gesture that distracted him more than it should have. That’s when the pain hit him, hard and sudden, forcing a gasp from his lips as he punched the wall, leaning his head against it.

She was by his side in an instant, her hand on his back, drawing soothing circles as she whispered words of comfort.

“It’s just a bad night,” she had said, her voice soft and reassuring, like a balm for his frayed nerves. Light healing magic humming like crystal reverberating through an echo, dulling the ache. “It will pass. I’ll stay with you.”

He had tried to dismiss her, insisting she didn’t need to lose sleep over him, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She never did.

“Nonsense, Cullen. I’m not leaving.” She had stayed true to her word, sitting with him, speaking in that gentle tone of hers about anything she thought might distract him—Mabaris, the taste of perfectly cooked meat, even the design of blades, though her clumsy attempts at discussing weaponry had made him chuckle despite himself.

“So much for the cultured mage,” she had teased, her words echoing in his mind now. “Blades are sharp, and they go slice.” She had mimicked the gesture with her hand, her cheerful expression serene, like nothing was happening. It made it feel bearable.

Now, as she stood in front of him, holding out a report, he could see the same concern in her eyes. She waited patiently for him to take it, her expression warm and reassuring, as if to say that she was here for him, that she always would be. He took the report, and as he looked up at her, he saw the smile that always made his heart ache just a little bit more.

“So…” she began, hopping up onto his desk with a practiced ease, crossing her legs. Her hair fell around her like a curtain of white silk, and he caught a hint of the resin and flowers she used as perfume—something earthy and soothing, like the forest after rain, and something airy and dreamy, like the gush of wind that went through him when he first entered Halamshiral's gardens. She didn’t push him to talk, just sat there, waiting, her eyes gentle and patient.

He knew what she was doing. She was giving him space, letting him speak when and if he was ready. But all he could think about was how she didn’t see him the way he saw her. To her, he was a friend—a brother, even. Someone to support, someone to care for, but nothing more.

And that’s what hurt the most.

He sighed, surrendering before he even began.

"I can’t hide anything from you, can I?"

She smirked. "What can I say? As a mage, keeping an eye on templars is just instinct."

"I’m fine."

"You haven’t eaten properly since…" Her voice trailed off, concerned. "Sorry. I know you don’t like me mentioning those moments."

He nodded. She didn’t need to finish the sentence. He knew what she was talking about—the night she stayed with him, the night she saw him at his lowest.

One of the many.

Her concern was genuine, but it only made the ache in his chest worse. She noticed everything about him—everything except the one thing he wishes she would. For a long moment, his gaze focused on her hand as it covered her mouth, the gesture both delicate and distracting. He forced himself to shift his focus from her lips to the dark tattoos that marked her as Dalish, then back to her green eyes. Gathering his composure, he responded.

"It’s fine. Yes, I haven’t been able to stomach much, but I’ll try today." He stood up and turned toward the window, trying to gather his thoughts. Her fingers were still resting on her lips, a subtle distraction. Not that she ever noticed his feelings. She was perceptive enough to identify spies within Skyhold, but she never picked up on his subtle hints or his attempts at flirting, even before she started spending time with Solas. Maybe she was too innocent or too absorbed with the apostate to notice. Either way...

Turning back, he saw her still standing, deep in thought. He adored the way she looked when she was contemplating something: hand on her chin, eyes fixed on some distant point, shoulders slightly slouched as if she was trying to keep her thoughts contained. He couldn’t help but smile. Should he make another attempt? His hand rose before he could decide. He moved closer, placing his hands gently on her shoulders.

Her eyelids fluttered as she returned from her thoughts, looking up at him curiously.

"I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but having you here is the greatest cure," he said, smiling softly and lovingly, waiting for her reaction.

She sighed. "Friendship is magic, really, Cullen?" It was almost a groan, but there was good humor in it. She smiled and pinned her hands to her hips. No, she didn’t notice.

"I know you don’t want to inconvenience me, but…" She grabbed his elbows. "I want to help. Besides, I’m the Inquisitor and a Dalish mage, so any weird request I can just attribute to some obscure Dalish ritual. Humans still half-expect me to dance naked under the Full Moon, so whatever you need, just ask." She was trying to be reassuring, her eyes alight with the sincerity of the offer. He had to restrain himself from just hugging her. Instead, he let go of her shoulders, and she released his elbows.

"Besides, I had an idea. I came to make sure you’re okay, of course, but also to say that I’m leaving for Crestwood, there's something we have to investigate." She paused, her demeanor shifting. Her eyelids fluttering, her hands clamping behind her back, looking at her feet with a small smile. Oh no. He forgot.

"On the way, there are fruits that are easy on the stomach. It’s all Bull could eat for days after we slew a dragon the first time." She snorted at the memory, her hand resting on his elbow again. She touched him so casually, so confidently, not realizing the effect she had on him, how every time he’s either fighting the urge to just kiss her or do something else stupid that would make her hate him.

"Do you remember? I would have never thought I’d see him dancing on a table. Dance." She laughed, and he couldn't help but join her. It was hilarious, and she was glowing.

He didn't hear anyone approaching, so when the door opened, he was startled. He was enjoying the rare alone time with her, but of course, it was Solas. He was wearing the robes they collected on a mission, a bright emerald green with hints of black and white. Solas glanced at her hand on Cullen’s elbow and their closeness, his body stiffening slightly. He knew, and it bothered him. He never said anything, of course, just being content with the knowledge that she had eyes only for him. She didn’t stop laughing, but turned, and as soon as she saw who entered, her eyes changed. There was a spark there, one that doesn’t need words.

"We were talking about the night we slew our first dragon," she said, still smiling, inviting Solas to join in the laughter. When she realized where his eyes had settled and how unhappy he was about it, her hand dropped from Cullen’s elbow, and she took a step towards him. 

He looked at her gently and extended a hand, an invitation. "We should go, Inquisitor." She hesitated for a moment before taking it while smiling, surprised. They usually restrain themselves in public; was this display just for Cullen? To mark his territory? Solas used the contact to guide her to his side, closing the distance between them, not letting go of her hand, fingers naturally lacing together. Solas seemed perfectly calm and composed, as he usually was.

"Thank you, Commander, for your… efforts," Solas said, his tone cool, pausing slightly before continuing, "The Inquisition is stronger than ever, thanks to you."

It was a provocation, but Cullen refused to take the bait. "It’s my job, a job I should get back to. Thank you, Inquisitor, for the report." He raised the document, holding it perhaps a little too tightly.

She glared at Solas for a moment before turning back to Cullen. "Bye, Cullen. We’ll be back by night. If anything comes up, send a raven." 

With that, they left. He heard their voices on the other side of the door.

"That was uncalled for," she whispered.

"Vhenan," Solas replied, using the tired tone of someone who has had the same conversation too many times before.

"Don't. Cullen thinks of me as a sister, as do I and—"

The words made Cullen’s heart sink to his stomach. They switched to Elvish, their voices fading as they moved farther away. He sighed, defeated, and opened the report, sitting at his desk. It was something mundane about supplies, but he had to deal with it nonetheless. As he began writing, he noticed a piece of bread on his desk that wasn’t there before. She must have left it for him. He sighed again, glancing at the ancient Elvhen book he meant to give her. It was extremely rare apparently, almost perfectly preserved, something an elven scout found; something that he wanted to present to her personally. But by the time he had finished the bread and walked out to the walls, they were already waiting for their mounts. They were laughing at something, standing close. Solas glanced around to make sure they weren't seen, then leaned in to kiss her. She responded immediately, a hand traveling to the nape of his neck, then pushed him away playfully just in time for Master Curt to bring their mounts.

That’s the moment Varric chose to make his appearance. Of course. He glanced at him, then followed his gaze and chuckled.

"Still thinking about her, Curly?" he asked, patting Cullen’s back.

"Varric, not now," Cullen pleaded, but the dwarf ignored him.

"Get over her. She looks at Chuckles like flowers sprout from his shiny bald head. Have you even tried?"

Cullen leaned against the stones as the gate opened. They were on their hallas, ready to leave.

"Yes, I tried again, and she didn’t understand."

Varric laughed so intensely and for so long that Cullen straightened up, ready to walk away.

"No, Curly, sorry. It’s not you, it’s her. She’s going to be an interesting character for a book." Varric gestures widely, slipping into his storyteller tone. "The mighty Inquisitor, keen mind and keener tongue, fierce leader, juggling the weight of the world in her hands daily, heart of gold," he paused dramatically, raising a hand, "but completely and utterly incompetent and blind in matters of the heart."

Cullen sighed, folding his arms. "It fits."

Varric grinned. "It must be why Cole likes her so much. I swear I heard him purring on her lap a couple of days ago."

Cullen chuckled, then hurriedly defended her. "She’s just young and inexperienced."

Varric regarded him with a knowing look. "Look, Curly, I understand, but she and Chuckles aren’t going to split anytime soon. I think he’s planning something for her, maybe some weird Dalish proposal ritual or something, and—"

"What?" Cullen’s voice came out sharper than he intended. Varric lifted his hands in surrender. "Don’t shoot the messenger. Sparkles said he saw Chuckles practicing some kind of speech in ancient Elvhen for days. He couldn’t make anything of it but told me Chuckles even looked happy… at times." He patted Cullen’s back again, sympathy and a bit of pity in his eyes. "I think we should go to the tavern."

"It’s morning, Varric."

"It’s that kind of morning, and there’s a new girl waiting tables. In the right light, she looks a bit like her." Varric pointed at Nuria crossing the gates, then started pushing him, and Cullen didn’t have the strength to resist. The report could wait.

-

INQUISITOR

The stars shone brightly in the night sky as she approached the gates, her arrival announced with a solitary, echoing silence. She felt numb, her senses heightened, as if she was exposed, in danger, and her body reacted instinctively. She felt as if her deepest, darkest secrets were laid bare to the world. Bare, like her face. The guards, weary from the long night, inquired about Solas. With a voice that barely held, she managed to say, "He’ll be back." Her tone was nearly steady, and the guard, too tired to press further, let her pass. She silently thanked the darkness for cloaking her face enough to avoid additional scrutiny. Her bare face felt strange and vulnerable; she touched it as she dismounted the Halla. The beast, sensing her distress, headed towards the stables only after some encouragement.

She ran her fingers over her face, feeling the exposed skin as if it was alien. The sensation was both soft and unsettling. One guard attempted to approach, but she raised a hand and murmured, "I’m tired, can it wait until morning?" They accepted her request without question.

Slowly, she ascended the stairs to Skyhold, clutching her cape tightly and taking deep, steadying breaths. The journey through the main hall to her rooms would be interminable. She briefly wished she could sprout wings and fly, a dream she had as a child while experimenting with magic. She stopped halfway, sighing deeply, and scanned the area for a secluded corner where she might curl up and sleep unnoticed. However, as the leader, she knew that eyes were always on her. She steeled herself for the trek through the hall, her mind a chaotic mess of questions and unspoken words. She had to go through a host of people to reach peace. Maybe she should have slept in the forest, on a tree, like she used to. Her own mind was trying to distract her, but it was too late now. She struggled to keep her composure.

The hall was alive with the hum of conversation and laughter. She kept her head down, trying to avoid the inevitable questions she was not prepared to answer. As she made her way towards her tower, she heard the shuffle of feet growing closer. Her breath caught. Not now.

Cullen appeared at her side, crouching to get a better look at her face. She turned away, attempting to maintain a semblance of normalcy but failing. "Are you okay?" Cullen’s voice was laced with worry and a subtle plea.

Her mouth opened, and she felt tears welling up in her eyes. Not now. Before she could respond, Cole’s voice interjected. "Ar lasa mala revas. You are free. You are so beautiful. But then he left, why?" His words cut through her, leaving her feeling more exposed than ever. It took every ounce of her strength to regain control of her face, to switch into Inquisitor mode and mask her emotions. The hall was filled with people going about their evening. 

Though the tears still glisten in her eyes, she managed to lift her head and address Cole with the authoritative tone she reserves for Inquisition matters, never for him. "Cole, not here, not now," she commanded, though her voice softened at the end. Not now. The spirit boy seemed taken aback, and she felt another pair of eyes piercing her with intensity.

She turned to Cullen, who, stunned, was gaping at her. His eyes widened as he noticed that her Vallaslin were gone. It was a small mercy that he seemed utterly at a loss for words.

"But you’re hurting, and I want to help," Cole persisted, his voice filled with genuine concern and childish insistence. She turned back to him, placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, then on his cheek, and spoke softly. "Thank you, but sometimes you have to wait for the right time and place. And this is neither."

"He’s also hurting. He always hurts when he looks at you," Cole added, and her heart wrenched painfully. Her resolve was crumbling; she felt the tears threatening to spill. Not now.

Caught between Cole and Cullen, who was beginning to regain his speech, she saw Varric peering curiously from the fireplace, too far away to discern her expression or her lack of Vallaslin clearly, but aware that something was going on. Normally, she would brush off the attention, but tonight, she was overwhelmed.

Not now. Not now.

"I’m tired. I’m going to sleep. See you tomorrow," she announced mechanically, her voice too quick and flat. She turned on her heel and strode towards the door, her gaze fixed on the ground, her steps hurried and uneven.

**

When the door of her bedroom clicked shut behind her, she finally felt safe. Tears were already streaming down her face. She looked around and suddenly didn't recognize the space around her. It was a stranger’s room. 

Only that morning he was there, smiling softly, talking to her with a shy smile and a nervousness about him she had never seen. It wasn't the usual dread at something he never confessed to, but something closer to a youth getting ready for their first hunt, or a first confession to a crush. That made him look much younger, and as the soft red, oranges and pink of dawn reflected on his face, it made her heart throb at the promise of something special reserved for the day.

Her smile had melted into his touch, his warm hands resting gently on her back and neck, his lips soft against hers, their hearts racing in unison. That kiss had felt like a promise. A promise that now lay shattered.

A sob escaped her throat, sharp and sudden, and she clasped a hand over her mouth in surprise, trying to silence herself. She hadn’t meant to cry again. She had already shed her tears on the way here, and it should have been enough. But as she stood alone in the room, the floodgates opened anew.

What undid her wasn’t the emptiness of the room or the absence of his presence, but the simple, ordinary thing he had left behind—a map for their journey. It sat on her desk, untouched since the morning. The ink had long dried, crisp and clear, until her tears began to fall on it, staining the parchment one drop at a time. 

She should have known. 

Every desperate kiss, every time he clung to her as though they were their last moments together, had been a warning. A warning he had voiced. She just hadn’t listened. She didn’t want to. She felt love, she felt loved, and had thought that at the end, it would be enough. Every look of pain and guilt he gave her before walking away had been a sign that one day, he would leave for the last time.

She hadn’t wanted to understand. She had been too in love to let reason in, too afraid to see what was coming. Maybe it was better this way. She had almost told him the truth, almost bared her soul, her darkest secrets—the parts of herself she was too terrified to reveal. Each half-truth she spoke had been a step closer to disaster. In some twisted way, it was a mercy that he had left before she showed him the monster. The monster would remain hidden, safe behind her smiles, tucked into the folds of her gentleness, locked in the prison she had built for it. There, it could never hurt anyone. There, she wouldn’t have to worry about it being seen—worry about her to be rejected for it. It was better this way.

But just for that night, she allowed herself to mourn her love and spend all the tears she had, until she fell asleep.

-

SOLAS

He stood amidst the remnants of a place that was once his, now reduced to a heap of rubble and a few crumbling walls. Ruined, like everything else in that twisted world of his own creation. Magic crackled around him, his power flaring as the last bandit who had made this place a makeshift camp, collapsed. He drew heavy breaths, the flames of the campfire still roaring fiercely, illuminating the scattered spoils of the bandits: empty and half-empty bottles, scattered coins, and tarnished jewels lie strewn across the floor. These treasures, once precious, now held as little significance as the broken remnants of the place they inhabit.

He was breathing heavily, winded, and irritation flickered across his face. “So weak, still,” he muttered, the frustration audible only to himself. His gaze shifted to a wall lining the side of the mountain, its intricate tile decorations surviving millennia, though the golden tiles had long since vanished. He raised a hand, the wolf depicted on the tiles glowing with his command. The wall shifted, revealing a hidden passageway.

The room beyond appeared untouched but overgrown. It was once a training ground during his rebellion, where his people would practice and dream of freedom. White marble tiles, once pristine, now lie in disarray on the floor and walls, darkened by millennia of disuse. The echoes of voices, once full of hope and camaraderie, seemed almost tangible as he walked through the space, now a desolate remnant of Elvhenan's past. It bore a striking resemblance to the training grounds he created at Skyhold, except this one still held the remnants of his people. He was, in essence, walking through a cemetery.

He surveyed the signs of distress and destruction with mounting anger. Each ruin was a stark reminder of his mistakes and their impact on The People, each pile of ash a person that believed in him, in his mission, that he would save them. 

And he almost deserted them for her. 

He looked away. He wasn't here to reminisce; he was here to unleash his fury in a place where no one would disturb him. The catalyst for his rage was immediate and explosive.

He let out a roar. His magic lashed out, darting and crashing against targets, obliterating whatever it touched, grazing and burning him too. His movements were frantic, desperate, as though he was fighting a losing battle with the world itself. His thoughts were a chaotic jumble, intertwining guilt and love, duty and grief. They swirled around him, mingling with his magic, until he was breathless. Finally, he collapsed to his knees, drained and heartbroken, confronting his own feelings and mourning.

The new pain was sharp and raw, a fresh wound on top of old, infected ones. The pain in his body was a small, twisted comfort. He had done it before, he had done worse, but his fury didn’t subside.

Cole’s familiar voice translated his most intimate, anguished thoughts, and those of the fallen there, into words. “Help, it burns, and you weren’t there to help.”

Cole’s voice raised, full of confusion. “She will understand, but what if she doesn’t? Disgust on her face, fury—”

Solas snapped at the Spirit, irritation mingling with his despair. “I had no choice. I must atone. I must rebuild what I’ve destroyed, no matter the personal cost.”

Cole’s response was almost a chant. “Atone. You want to put the past in the future and the future in the past, but that’s not the right order.”

“Is it, Cole?” Solas retorted. 

“Look around. This is a world where magic is child's play and those who wield it are cursed to a life as a prisoner or a fugitive. The People have vanished, replaced by shadows, slaves, or those who preach freedom while bearing the marks of their servitude. Spirits like you are feared, manipulated, and corrupted. And all the others are separated from their true purpose, and twist in agony until they turn to madness. This is all my fault. I need to fix my mistakes. I must save The People, even if it means her world must die.”

“But you love her still,” Cole interjected, his tone laden with a sadness Solas was reluctant to confront.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“And she would love you still, if she knew the truth.”

“You can’t know that.”

He spoke with his cadence and accent, looking in between his eyebrows. “You’re unique in all of Thedas.” A pause, eyes getting wider by a fraction “She’s real, and that means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can’t.” Cole's head whipped, and his voice reflected her accent. “You’re a monster. I will stop you.” His head whipped towards the initial direction, mimicking again his own accent, while shaking his head slowly. “But it can’t happen. I can’t hurt her, not her. Ma vhenan.”

“Cole, this is not a pain you can heal. Please, stop.”

“But she also told me to stop. Thank you, but sometimes you have to wait for the right time and place. And this is neither.”

The mage, who had been pacing in agitation, halted abruptly, struggling to form a coherent question. He stared at Cole, his face contorted with a question he was too afraid to ask. “Is she…hurting?” The answer was painfully obvious.

“She is bare-faced, embarrassed. She doesn’t know. She thinks it’s because of her.”

A sob-like chuckle escaped him. He hadn’t realized his cheeks were wet with tears until now. When did he start crying?

“How could it be because of her? She’s—” He faltered, unable to articulate an appropriate descriptive term for the person who, in just a few months, shattered his resolve and made him question his own plans. How could he describe someone who made him almost abandon his long-held beliefs and values, who made him feel so deeply in such a short time? A child who, despite her age, had such a profound impact on him? Words failed him.

“Hope has been lost in the storm. Shattered, confused, blinded. She’s the only one left in the rain. But there was only a cloud this morning. I should have known.”

Hearing the pain he had caused her deepened his own despair. He felt nauseous, overwhelmed by the knowledge that he had broken her heart and hurt her so deeply. He failed to act in her best interests, letting his own selfish desires prevail. And now she was paying the consequences.

“Go to her with the truth. She’ll stop hurting.”

“I can’t do that. I have no choice. Please, Cole, I need to sleep now. I need to check on her from the Fade.”

“She’ll be mad if she notices.”

Cole disappeared, leaving Solas alone. Defeated, the old elf found a place to lie down, choosing what remained of a cot. Despite his decision to let her go, he felt a pull towards her. But that wasn’t why he would look for her. The Anchor. If she ended up possessed, his plans would fail and the Blight would win. That was the only reason.

He needed to see her, to make sure she was—he didn’t know what he wanted to confirm. It was a mistake, but he was compelled to see her. And not just because of the mission. As he settled in, his mind battled with itself over the best course of action. He owed her this, at the very least. 

If he couldn’t give her the truth or happiness, he owed her a peaceful rest. Though she was a Dream Walker, she was still new to her training and at risk of possession in a situation of distress after his partial training—one of the Veil’s many dangers—he realized that he had rationalized this need to see her. He still felt the touch of her lips, the warmth of her breath, and the scent of the spring forest where she was born. In Crestwood, it was all he could feel. That was when he thought he could leave everything behind for her. It took him a long while to fall asleep, a rarity for someone with his training and experience.

When he finally drifted into sleep, he found her with ease. The scent of her in the Fade was as familiar to him as the feeling of her breath against his neck. This has been a path he’d traveled many nights, guiding her through the wonders of the Fade and helping her explore her Dreamer talents—talents that had long been buried under layers of fear. But tonight, the situation is starkly different.

She was not waiting for him with her usual excitement. Instead, she was caught in the throes of a storm, her form huddled in a fetal position, hands pressed tightly to her ears, her eyes shut with an intensity that speaks of deep pain. Her cage had returned, but around her, it was pure chaos. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and Despair hovered ominously close, its presence suffocating. Surrounding her were fragments of images and dreams that tore at her heart.

Her nightmare was a twisted reflection of his essence—a version of him that was cold and mocking. He sneered at her suffering, cruel words echoing through the dark storm. His voice, full of derision, mingled with her torment, creating a cacophony of distress. Then he was scoffing at her, calling her a monster. Her, the born being that most represented Compassion in her own actions. Something that was so foreign from her, the beacon of kindness that she was; ridiculous. 

Her distressed state made even more fragments of fears and shattered hopes come forward. He heard mocking laughter, whipping, cruel shouts, the sounds of battle and death; everything was played at the same time, a cacophony that left room for no understanding.

Her dream was also filled with echoes of their past, happy memories of a love that bloomed under strange circumstances, and a vision of what could have been: a small, cozy room packed with books and laughter, a ring on her finger, a child playing around, and the roundness of her belly announcing another. This agonizing distortion of his own desires was the first thing he eradicated.

With a flick of his will, he began to reshape her dreams. He removed the tormenting images, the haunting memories, and molded the landscape into something more familiar and soothing. He conjured memories of her clan and her childhood—scenes of family, of simpler, happier times. She should not dream of him, nor should she have the torment of him in her life ever again. His intention is clear: to neutralize this threat and then withdraw, leaving her to live out a few quiet years before—

He didn't complete the thought. For a fleeting moment, he felt her gaze, a brief and poignant connection before her presence vanished from the Fade. She had woken up. He followed her, feeling the weight of the night pressing down on him. Cole was waiting.

“She is mad,” he announced. 

Then cocked his head, as one would when listening intently, and gasped painfully. Then looked down and started talking so quickly Solas barely registered the words.

“It doesn't work, it doesn't. A crackle that is not fire, a hiss that is a tormentor hiding in the shadow.” Cole looked panicked and paused ”They don't work, nothing is solid. Too quickly, too still.” Then disappeared. 

It was going to be a difficult and restless night.

-

VARRIC

He watched Glimmer’s retreating figure with a keen eye, already sensing the beginnings of a compelling story. The itch in his hand to bring ink to parchment was almost unbearable. Curly, on the other hand, looked like he'd seen the ghost of Andraste, his face drained of color and mouth hanging open. He took a sip from his drink, letting the cards they were playing with tumble onto the table, waiting for the commander to provide some sort of explanation. What could be so devastating? What left him speechless? Lines of dialogue were already forming in his head. Ah, the joys of the craft.

Cullen collapsed into the armchair he had only just occupied minutes before, staring blankly at his toes. When he finally spoke, his words came out with such suddenness that it startled Varric. “They’re gone.”

“What?” Varric’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Curly, I need you to get your love-struck head out of the gutter.”

Cullen blinked vacantly, his gaze flitting between the doors through which she just passed and back to Varric. “Her face tattoos,” he said, almost in disbelief, “they’re gone.” The stank of ale in his breath confirmed Varric’s suspicions.

Varric chuckled, finding the notion of blood tattoos simply vanishing more amusing than concerning. He remembered Merril explaining the process—there’s no way they could just disappear. “Curly, they can’t just vanish. I think you’ve had too much to drink.”

The human shook his head emphatically. “Cole must have seen it too. Ask him.”

But Cole had already vanished, leaving behind a lingering shudder in Cullen’s wake. He pressed a hand to his brow, trying to steady himself. “I’ve seen it, Varric.”

“Okay, okay, Curly. Let’s say I believe you,” Varric said, his tone dripping with irony as he raised a hand to silence Cullen’s protests. “Which I do, really.”

Cullen’s stunned expression barely shifted, but he managed to ask, “What’s more important?”

“There’s no Chuckles around,” Varric said, his tone growing more serious. “He didn’t come back with her, and she was on the verge of tears.”

Cullen’s comprehension was coming along, albeit slowly. Varric’s words were sinking in, and he finally started to piece together the implications.

“Come on, Curly. This could be your chance,” Varric urged. “Something must have happened. If you play your cards right, this might be your opportunity!”

Cullen, mouth still agape, took in this revelation. Varric’s idea for a book already began to crystallize in his mind, and he knew he needed to act quickly. He rose, still processing the gravity of the situation.

“Maybe I really did give you too much to drink,” Varric says, with a final wave of his hand. “Off to bed you go, Curly. Tomorrow’s your big day.”

As Cullen trudged off toward his chambers, hopefully managing to close his mouth along the way, Varric chuckled to himself. He rubbed his hands together and reached for his parchment. This was going to be an interesting chapter.

Chapter Text

CULLEN

When she approached the breakfast table in the early morning, a series of gasps announced her. The room’s atmosphere shifted abruptly, as if a stone had been cast into still water, sending ripples of shock across the faces of those seated. Cullen, Cassandra, Vivienne, and, unusually, Dorian, who was slumped over the table, still foggy with sleep, were all caught in the sudden change. Notably absent was Solas, usually the first to rise, or just coming with the Inquisitor to the breakfast table from her quarters.

Dorian was the last to realize, moved to open his eyes only by the dramatic gasp Vivienne drew. When he focused on her friend's face he finally sat straight, mouth agape for a few seconds.

Nuria met the reactions with a strained smile, greeting everyone with her usual cheerfulness. 

“Good morning!”

But the attempt fell flat under the weight of their astonished stares, her raspy voice, and her swollen face. No matter how she schooled her expression, the signs were there.

Cullen was as speechless as everyone else, blinking at a rapid speed, like if he blinked fast enough the Inquisitor’s face would be covered in branches again. 

His sausage and eggs lay abandoned in his plate, his fork dropped inelegantly on the wooden table without his notice. He at least kept himself from rubbing his eyes.

Her Vallaslin were missing, no matter how many times he blinked, no matter if he actually rubbed his eyes. And when he finally managed to tear his eyes away from her bare face, he noticed that instead of the beautiful silken two-piece suit she usually wore around Skyhold, as per Josephine’s request, she had on the elegant Dalish robes she was wearing at the conclave. The same she fell out of the Fade with; he recognized the scratches.

It was like she was desperately trying to grab onto her identity, now that the most striking part of it had been erased from her face.

Vivienne was the first to break the stunned silence. “Inquisitor, it must have been quite a day yesterday. You disappeared with the Apostate—” Cullen winced at the mention of Solas. “—And now your Dalish bar-" she coughed gracefully, dramatically, placing a hand on her mouth, but the implication was clear. 

"Tattoos are gone. And that face,” she added, interrupting herself with a feigned scoff. “It looks dreadful. I should attend to it. Care to regale us with the undoubtedly fascinating tale of your day?”

Nuria's face tightened at the comment about her appearance, but she didn’t respond to the jibe. Instead, she looked focused and tense, and she almost automatically headed for her usual seat, beside Solas’, only to stop midstep abruptly. With a startled glance around, she took a seat next to Dorian, who was now fully awake and regarding her with concern, and opposite Cullen, who was still staring at her in disbelief.

From there he could see her better. Despite the situation, the first thing he noticed was how pretty she was, without those tattoos marring her face. Despite the swollen face, she looked more beautiful than ever, to him. 

The weirdness of seeing her without tattoos melted quickly at the beauty of her real face. He wondered many times what she could look like without them, and now he knew. 

After he got his lovestruck head out of the gutter, as Varric would say, he really looked at her. She was uncomfortable, struggling in a way he had never seen. She was blinking like he was minutes before, and still didn't manage to respond to Vivienne. Seeing her speechless was a first.

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra addressed her carefully, softer than anyone at the table had ever heard her. “What happened to your tattoos? I didn’t know they could disappear.” 

The whole table watched Nuria intently; even Vivienne, despite her earlier harshness, was now scrutinizing her carefully while pretending to focus on her pastry. A pastry she was holding with miniature thongs. 

Orlesians.

The Inquisitor took a moment, grabbing aimlessly at a piece of bread from the table—spicy bread she notoriously disliked—and placed it on her plate. She was buying herself time, any scrap of it, to delay the inevitable. She took a deep breath and began a small, mechanical, and practiced speech.

“I didn’t know they could be removed,” she started, her voice steadier than her appearance. “But yesterday I learned something about the Vallaslin's history. It didn’t feel right to keep them anymore. So…” She took another breath, back straightening, her hands folding gracefully on her lap, like she was taught before Halamshiral. “He removed them.”

Cullen had never seen her like that. She never allowed herself to be less than exemplary in public. She didn't even flinch at Halamshiral, where one could expect a Dalish elf to be out of their element. She played with the nobles and their expectations with a grace that surprised even him. And now…

“And where is he now?” Dorian asked sharply. “I haven’t seen him around. He always is the first to wake.”

“I don’t know his whereabouts,” she replied, licking her lips and taking another breath. “And from here on, I’m not the one you should be asking this question to.”

The table fell into stunned silence. She picked at the bread mechanically and took a bite, unmoved by its spiciness, before Dorian could stop her. He remained with a hand in the air, mid-motion, and then dropped it. Again, she was buying time. 

Reactions varied. The inner circle knew about them, and they seemed one of those ironclad couples that would last, unfortunately. Cassandra held her breath, like in one of her smutty novels. Dorian looked at her in disbelief, while Cullen was too surprised and hungover to immediately jump to happiness. Vivienne instead, unwilling to contain her feelings any longer, exclaimed with relief, “At long last!” 

She didn’t bother hiding her satisfaction, smiling widely and immediately rising from her seat, making more noise than she ever did . She began speaking animatedly about preparations, bathing salts, and cheese wheels, though her words seemed to drift aimlessly, not directed at anyone in particular. She stopped on her way out only to comment. 

“I do admire his ambition, though. Shame for him it didn’t work,” she said with a note of finality and snub as she exited, her voice trailing behind her. Cullen could almost swear he heard a giggle as she left the room.

Cullen, still slightly hungover, folded his hands in front of himself as he often did when deep in thought. The contact of his callous digits together somehow started his brain. 

He struggled to piece together the jigsaw of the morning’s events. Varric’s words echoed in his mind—something significant must have happened. A fight? It was unusual for them. And her final statement… Could it be that they’d broken up? He watched her closely. Yesterday she was on the verge of tears; today she appeared as though she was desperately trying to hold herself together. Solas was nowhere to be found.

The carefully constructed mask she wore at that moment was fragile and strained. She ate a few bites of the bread before the realization of what she was eating set in. She didn't make a disgusted face, didn't sputter what she had eaten. She just put the bread back on her empty plate and left it uneaten; she didn't attempt to eat anything else.

Cullen scratched his left temple thoughtlessly, while thinking what he could do to ease her, to capture her heart, before Solas came back to claim it. In his mind there was no doubt that he would, because Cullen would, because their connection was strong. 

It cost him to admit that, even only to himself, but too many times he had overheard conversations he did not understand, seen them deeply involved in topics that went over his head. He had wanted to insert himself, but he was a templar, discussions on philosophy were not his forte, unless the Chant and Andraste were involved.

They never spoke of that.

As the room settled into an uneasy silence, Josephine arrived at the table, her attention focused on a missive she’d received. She walked straight, carrying her wooden ledger. She never spilled the ink. Still distracted, she began to speak, her voice sure and energetic, like when something truly interesting arrived on her desk.

“Inquisitor…oh.” Josephine took a half-step back, her training clearly failing her at the sight before her. Her eyes widened, and she half-stuttered. “Your face, I didn’t realize—”

The Inquisitor met her gaze with a painful smile and began her speech once more. 

Cullen’s attention sharpened as he observed her more closely, the fog of alcohol and shock finally dissipating and leaving room for logical thought. It was undeniable that she had been crying. The strain in her voice and the way she clenched her robes was unlike her. She seemed to be shrinking into herself, her slender shoulders appearing fragile as they curled inward. 

Cullen tapped his fingers on the table, feeling the need to come closer and hug her, support her, hold her hand, anything that could have…he stilled his hand. Would she accept?

Despite her inherent gentleness, she had always projected strength, a protector for those who cannot protect themselves. Yet now, she looked vulnerable. He had never seen her that uncomfortable, flinching, like she could break. A strand of white hair fell delicately across her cheek, and for a fleeting moment, Cullen imagined reaching out to touch her cheek. The thought passed quickly as Josephine responded.

“Oh, of course, Inquisitor. Pardon my intrusion.” The diplomat quickly regained her composure, her eyelashes fluttering as she reorientated herself. “When you’re ready, there’s a matter of some urgency we need to discuss.” She glanced at Cullen. “With you too, Commander, when you’re both ready.”

The Inquisitor stood immediately, eager for the distraction and the chance to leave the table before more questions arose. “I’m done, I’m ready,” she said, her relief palpable. Confusion, hurt, need for escapism. All clouded and replaced her usual gentleness and calm.

It was like one of those jigsaw puzzles he once saw at a noble's home. Even as a whole, it still looked wrong, each deep line confusing him and making the beautiful picture seem wrong, broken. Something was etched on his skin that made her feel like one of those puzzles.

But Dorian, who had been watching her with increasing concern, interjected. “You’ve barely touched anything, and—” He paused, searching for a suitable excuse. “Your robes are all tattered and drab, even for a Dalish. I distinctly remember having something sent to your chambers recently.” There was a note of urgency in his voice, a trace of panic. He grabbed her hand, attempting to guide her away as if he feared she wasn't prepared to face her role as the world’s savior at this moment.

The Inquisitor gently squeezed his hand before letting it go, her gaze softening as she looked into Dorian’s worried eyes. “Thank you,” she said, the sincerity in her voice lingering in the air. “But Inquisition matters come first. As soon as we’re done, I’ll let you choose another outfit for me. No heels,” she warned with a semblance of her usual joking expression, though it was clear that socializing was an effort for her that day. 

Her voice, her face, it all looked about to break.

The Tevinter mage just stared at her like he wished he could become a shield for anything threatening his friend, and was hurt knowing that he couldn't be that.

“I will wait just outside the corridor,” Dorian promised, pointing to the hallway leading to the War Room.

The Inquisitor nodded in agreement, giving him one last sweet smile filled with affection, and turned to Cullen. “Shall we?”

He returned the nod and then glanced at Josephine, who was clearly relieved to be shifting the conversation away from the Inquisitor’s personal turmoil. With a brief, apologetic smile, Cullen stood and began to follow the Inquisitor and Josephine toward the War Room, his mind a swirl of concerns beyond the immediate Inquisition matters.

The gravity of the situation made him shift his focus easily. Leliana was already in the War Room, her attention so absorbed in the matter at hand that she barely notices the Inquisitor’s missing tattoos. Or at least Cullen thought. It’s only when she took a second, more deliberate glance that Cullen was sure she had registered the change.

True to her nature, Leliana said nothing about it. She remained professional, focusing on the mission.

“Our agents have intercepted an unnatural flux of Venatori mages in Kirkwall,” Leliana reported, her eyes briefly flickering to the Inquisitor before returning to Cullen. “And elves have gone missing from the Alienage.” Her gaze returned to the Inquisitor again, and then to Cullen. “There have been whispers of unsettling events, not unlike those you witnessed under Knight-Captain Meredith’s rule.”

Cullen’s pulse quickened at the mention of Kirkwall and his old Knight-Commander Stannard. The nightmares that have plagued him since his time there, now compounded by his withdrawal from lyrium, seemed to tighten their grip.

“Maker’s breath.” 

It escaped him before he could help himself.

His eyes searched Nuria’s for answers, finding in them the same boundless compassion and concern she had always shown him. He didn't want to look weak to her. Not when he had a chance. He looked away, forcing himself to focus. It was not the time for this. 

Leliana continued, her tone even, her Orlesian accent punctuating each word peculiarly. “The reports are confusing. Rumors abound—some suggest a cult trying to open another breach using blood magic, others point to the spread of Red Lyrium corruption. But the most disturbing rumors are about Corypheus. Some say he’s trying to enter the Fade physically…again.” She pressed her lips together, placing her hands on the War Table. “Other rumors claim he’s preparing a ritual to access a source of power that would make him even stronger.”

She turned to Nuria with the smallest satisfied smile, raw and wild, frightening for a second. “It seems he’s not pleased with the setbacks you’ve imposed, Inquisitor. He wants more power. Doubtless, there’s something significant happening in Kirkwall.”

Sometimes Cullen forgot that Leliana was among the people that slayed the Archdemon and saved him from the Ferrlden Mage Tower. He was unsure if she intentionally acted in a way that made him forget.

Leliana would show her brilliancy almost reluctantly, like it cost her. It was rare for her to actually put herself at the center of the action and state plainly what she was thinking.

But Cullen had found himself having ideas and following them only to feel Leliana’s knowing smile on him. He was left to wonder multiple times if he had ideas of his own or it was just her, every step of the way.

She would plant the seed of an idea in someone's mind subtly, let it take root and fester with little clues left around, influencing conversations held near her target, with situations perfectly staged to lead someone to her goals.

It was Nuria and Cassandra that saw through her. Cullen was often left fumbling for answers, or wondering what thoughts were his own.

Leliana had that look again, like she was filled to the brim with ideas and thoughts foreign to Cullen. That's when he noticed.

The room had fallen into stunned silence. The Inquisitor was absorbed, looking at a distant point in the room. She was always incredibly still when she was building a plan, but she never looked away, lost, like she was doing then. For a moment Cullen was worried, and was about to reach out. Then her blank expression turned into a mask of steely authority he was used to.

Leliana was simmering with something he couldn't identify, but before he could try and trace it, Nuria stood, diverting his attention.

“I have a plan,” she announced, her voice deliberate as she caught the eyes of everyone in the room. Her voice was strong, her earlier fragility gone. “But before we act, we must ensure we’re not walking into a trap or chasing baseless rumors. A rise in crime and the appearance of Venatori are concerning, but without solid evidence…” She gestured to the room. “It’s not enough. I want your best spies and scouts on this, Leliana.”

She turned to Josephine. “Prepare your diplomatic contacts for a potential visit from the Inquisition. Map out Kirkwall’s political landscape—who owes us favors, who might be an enemy. Consult with Varric for insights on handling this situation. Depending on how things develop, we might need to send high-ranking officials.” She then turned to Cullen, and his gut twisted in response. “If the next reports are troubling, you know the place and its people.” 

Of course, he would be the perfect candidate to go.

The mention of Kirkwall and the implication that he could be made to go back made Cullen’s heart sink. She must have noticed, because she raised a calming hand and added, “But it might not be necessary. Cullen, right now I want you to review our soldiers to determine how many are from Kirkwall. We could have a spy among us, or perhaps some soldiers know more through their families. I’ll also use dyes to mimic my Vallaslin from now on. If I need to go undercover in Kirkwall, the change in my appearance could be an asset.”

She paused and looked around for questions. There was just a general consensus and notes being written.

“You have your orders. Dismissed.”

The Inquisitor’s usual gentle demeanor returned as the weight of command lifted from her shoulders, if only briefly. Leliana nodded but shot one last curious glance at her face. Even a master of spies couldn’t hide her curiosity over the change. She refrained from mentioning it however, waiting for the Inquisitor to speak.

“I know it’s different,” the Inquisitor began, taking a breath as she prepared her speech.

“Inquisitor,” Josephine interrupted, “You had something important to discuss with Dorian, did you not? I’ll handle the rest.” She offered a gentle smile, an offer of serenity.

The Inquisitor gave Josephine a grateful smile and nodded before returning her attention to Leliana. “If it’s alright with you…”

“It is,” Leliana reassured her.

INQUISITOR

With a sigh of relief, she went for the door. She kept steady, but she felt herself crumble with every breath, her composure slowly peeling off. She couldn’t hold on for much longer. 

Every person she talked to was a challenge to overcome.

Every time she met a shocked pair of eyes, her heart clenched.

Every look of pity when the realization stuck felt unbearable.

And she felt selfish for it.

They were there to save the world. She was raised and looked at as the only person between Thedas and disaster. She couldn’t act like a broken-hearted girl. She couldn’t mourn her identity loss, her lying Gods, her naive people, raising their arms to the sky and invoking tyrants as saviors.

She had been destined to leadership ever since the first spark of magic appeared in her hands, raised for it, but it never felt like a burden, until that moment. 

She suddenly felt tired. Just tired.

And yet here she was, looking forward to going into her quarters, speaking to Dorian, and ignoring any other duties for the day.

Her skin felt tight, her eyes uncomfortably puffy, and her limbs heavy. She had felt better after falling off the Fade for the second time.

She sorely needed Dorian right now. Him, his dramatic metaphors, cocky smiles, and delicate soul that could reach her own so easily. It was a strange friendship, the one they shared, but one so deep she couldn’t put into words.

She stopped just outside the War Room, taking a deep, cleansing breath. Touched the roughness of a wall to ground herself in the moment, in reality. She felt her breathing itch. Deep breaths. She just had to hold on for a bit more. 

The door opened and closed behind her, and the clanking announced Cullen before his voice did.

“A word?” he asked gently, his tone softer than usual. She released yet another sigh, looking down, not ready to see the pity in his eyes.

“Has everyone noticed?” she finally asked, her gaze meeting his. 

Noticed what, exactly? She had no name for it. Heartbreak felt reductive, but everyone thinks their situation is more special than everyone else's, that they’re the exception to the rule, and yet, none is. Maybe, surely, she was just a fool, like many before her, grappling with being rejected, discarded. Everyone was just a recycled story, a weave like many that came and many that will still come. 

It hurt because she had shown him more than anyone had ever seen, given more than she had ever thought she would, and she thought that amongst the pain, the danger and fear, she had found Love. Real Love. Against all odds. What a fool.

She blinked, and focused on Cullen. His face had a mix of emotions difficult to untangle, each thread tangled in endless others. She couldn't pull one without making a mess of the rest. He pushed back all that he was feeling before she could make a sense of it, and took a reassuring stance.

“Yes,” he replied.

She blanked for a second. What were they talking about? Oh right…

“Great,” she muttered, placing her hands on her hips and looking up at the ceiling. Stone bricks, tall windows filtering the light from outside, flickers of dust in the air. Breathe. 

Cullen glanced at the door and then back at her, hesitating before speaking.

“I’ll take you to Dorian,” he offered.

Gingerly, he placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her forward. A gentle, tentative touch. She barely noticed the gesture, her focus consumed by her own turmoil and the challenge of not making a fool of herself in front of the entire Skyhold. 

She closed her hands in tight fists, trying to steel herself, and instead was startled by the sharp pang of her anchor as she did so. The anchor reacted strongly to her intense emotions, and the pain from the previous night still lingered. She refused to acknowledge it or move her hand, determined not to let the discomfort win.

As they entered Josephine’s office, Cullen broke the silence. “Did it hurt?” he asked, gesturing toward her face.

“Surprisingly, no,” she admitted, touching her smooth, unmarked skin. It felt unfamiliar and oddly bare. She felt the ghost of branches she could trace even now. She looked up at Cullen, in a moment of girlish insecurity. 

“Do I look weird to you?”

Cullen appeared momentarily stunned by the question. His mouth opened and closed, a small smile tugging at her lips at his struggle.

“Be honest,” she added after a pause. “I won’t be offended.”

After a few long seconds, Cullen finally found his voice. “You,” he began, clearing his throat, and tried again. 

“You look—have always looked—beautiful.” With each word, his face turned a deeper shade of red. She smiled gently, finding his awkwardness endearing. He looked so young and vulnerable when he acted like this, she felt like she was talking to Varian, her younger brother. He struggled with complimenting her ever since entering the troubled teenage years.

“Thank you,” she replied, touching her face once more, still feeling uncertain. “But I still feel weird,” she confessed, her voice tinged with something she couldn't name. She felt too strongly and nothing at all. But one thing she knew for sure. “Seeing myself in the mirror today was…a surprise.” 

She turned toward the mirror in Josephine’s office, but Cullen’s grip on her back tightened, gently pulling her around to face him. She looked at him curiously. His face remained flushed, but there was a tender look in his eyes that she momentarily associated with the looks Solas used to give her. 

Used to.

The thought sent a sharp pang of pain through her chest, and she instinctively clutched her robe over her heart, as if preventing it from breaking.

Cullen’s expression shifted to one of concern as he observed her reaction. 

“I’m sorry,” they both said simultaneously.

“Jinx,” she said with a faint smile, touching the tip of her nose with her thumb and his with her pinky. His confusion momentarily eased as he smiled back, loosening his hold on her waist but continuing to guide her toward the door.

“You need Dorian,” he said, his voice steady.

“I do,” she confirmed.

As they stepped through the door, she saw Dorian and relaxed slightly, allowing herself a small smile. But then something made her turn, a magnetic pull, calling her to turn her head.

It was always the same ‘something’, or rather, ‘someone’. The same someone that made her heart beat fast, her blood burn in every vessel, her spirit fly to heights it had never reached and then crash on the shore violently, and her body feel home.

Finally, her heart skipped a beat as Solas entered the hall. 

For a moment, his gaze locked onto hers, taking in her unmarked face in the daylight for the first time. His expression was neutral, the mask he wore for everyone but her, until she became everyone. Yet, for a fleeting moment, it cracked, revealing a look of awe as if she was crafted from the finest wonders of the Fade. That moment quickly faded, replaced by a more guarded look as Cullen’s grip tightened on her waist.

Solas met Cullen’s gaze with a similar intensity, his eyes flickering between Cullen’s hand on her waist and her own face. There was a flash of something—anger or jealousy?—before Solas addressed them with measured formality.

“Commander, Inquisitor,” he said, voice cold.

“Solas,” she whispered, the ache in her voice revealing too much. She wasn’t ready to face him. For a moment, Solas’ knuckles turned white as he gripped his staff, but his expression didn’t betray a flicker of emotion.

Dorian swiftly intervened. “Now that we’ve all greeted each other with perfect amiability, I have something urgent to discuss with the Inquisitor.” He pulled her away from Cullen with an urgency that suggested an impending crisis. Before leaving, he gave both men a scathing look. “Commander, you,” he said with contempt, directing his gaze at Solas. Despite their mutual respect, Dorian's loyalty was firmly with her, and Solas was now seen as an adversary.

“Dorian, please—” she started, but Dorian’s firm grip and purposeful stride cut her off.

With a false cheerfulness that barely hid his anger, Dorian continued. “The First Enchantress has arranged for your rooms to be prepared for, and I quote, ‘the most decent pampering this place allows on such short notice.’ And then we can try the lovely robes I’ve been sending your way.”

As she was dragged away, she glanced back at Solas and Cullen, feeling responsible for the negative reactions Solas was getting. She should have just acted as a mediator, but Dorian dragged her away before she could garner the strength to protest.

Dorian closed the door behind her, severing her eyes from the situation in the hall, inviting her to think about her impending Orlesian-style pampering session and, eventually, a long conversation with Dorian.

-

SOLAS

The urge to unleash every ounce of his remaining power and shatter Cullen into a million pieces was nearly unbearable. Solas’ grip on his staff tightened as he heard Dorian dragging his Vhenan away. He remained rooted to the spot, unable to move, unsure of what he might do if he let himself act on his rage. For now, he was alone with Cullen in the bustling main hall, where the usual activity continued unabated.

“I see you’ve been busy, Commander,” Solas growled.

“So have you, apostate,” Cullen retorted, his response sharp and immediate. The intensity surprised Solas; Cullen never bit back.

“She came back alone last night, without her tattoos,” Cullen added, his tone cold and triumphant. “And she spent the morning explaining why and that she didn’t know where you were. But don’t worry.” He smirked. “I took care of her. As I will from now on.”

A white flash behind his eyes. He was dangerously close to unleashing hell, damn the consequences, damn his disguise, damn his careful plan.

His plan.

His plan, his people, his atonement. He couldn't have doubts, nor her. 

A sudden memory of her proud smiling face as she managed to translate a line of Ancient Elvhen without his help, and the way his heart had skipped a beat. Her hand, closing around his, shyly, in the quiet of a sleepy camp. His lips, pressing hungrily to hers around an empty corner of Skyhold, until the sounds of steps neared. The way she stirred early in the morning, eyelashes fluttering and heavy with sleep until she met his eyes and smiled softly.

He had to let go of all of this. 

Just one more thing he needed to sacrifice on the altar of his mistakes. 

And he had to accept that this meant that she would eventually choose someone else. His happiness didn’t matter. His love didn’t matter. His grip tightened on his metal staff. 

These thoughts swirled in his mind, paralyzing him as Cullen basked in his newfound victory. He regarded Cullen—dashing, steadfast in his own way, strong but limited in understanding beyond the realm of battle. Perhaps this is what she needed: Someone that could open his heart to her without reserve, that could bring her into his bed without his secrets barring the way. Someone simple, but that could stand by her, until…until he brought her whole world to an end. 

But as Cullen continued to gloat, his smugness made these rational thoughts evaporate. Solas sneered, his guilt twisting in his chest. 

“If she will allow it,” he replied, his voice dripping with sardonic amusement. He knew she loved him and he was using that love as a weapon against Cullen. Disgusting. 

“It seems to me that her preferences are settled on the matter,” he continued, adopting an air of superiority. 

Cullen’s expression tightened with displeasure. “Give it time. She will change her mind once she sees who truly wishes to treat her properly. Once she realizes that the one who swore himself to her is nothing but a bad memory—a prick who could never make her truly happy.”

That was too much.

Cullen’s face reddened, his hand instinctively moving to his sword. Solas was ready to summon his magic in response, but before they could act, Varric stepped in, his voice jovial and slightly mocking.

“Boys,” Varric exclaimed, stepping between them with an exaggerated sense of calm. “Isn’t this the perfect time for a game of Wicked Grace?”

Solas realized the foolishness of the situation and decided to retreat. 

“Thank you, Master Tethras, but I have matters to attend to.” With that, he headed toward his rotunda, the eyes of the crowd that always filled the hall following him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. Sera’s laughter echoed through the hall, adding to the discomfort of the situation.

“You’ve done it,” Sera called after him, her voice filled with glee. “Now she’ll get the next most boring one, and you’ll get to watch. Ain’t that fun?”

The door closed behind him, offering a brief respite from the scrutiny. Solas found himself relatively alone, though whispers and stares continued from the upper levels. He turned his attention to his desk, where his work awaited. 

Plans needed to be reviewed, letters prepared for his agents, and tasks considered. He forced himself to focus, pushing aside the distracting whispers, chuckles, and gasps. His heart and mind must be stilled until only the mission was left, a skill he thought he had mastered before she entered his life. With renewed determination, he dived into his work, determined to ignore the chaos surrounding him.

VARRIC

Well, at least one of them bowed out before someone started destroying the hall that had just been rebuilt. Finding a merchant willing to bring the materials up there had been no easy task, and two members of the Inquisition fighting over the Lady Inquisitor didn't exactly scream ‘we’re serious about saving the world.’ 

Nonetheless the predictable murmur started spreading in the hall, with Buttercup literally rolling on the floor, having a field day.

And with her favorite target gone, it was time for Curly to get her special treatment. She propped herself on one of his shoulders and started wiggling her eyebrows.

“Sooooo…,” she started, “You finally grew a pair and are going after her, huh? It’s been fun seeing you pining as she and Elfy Elf were sneaking around doing the dirty, but seeing you doing the dirty with her as Elfy Elf’s off crying in a corner? That’s gonna be fun!”

Cullen was now the same shade of his red shirt, and the murmur in the hall was getting louder, with a badly disguised Orlesian spy that was practically going to throw herself on the floor, with how intensely she was leaning to listen. So before Josephine emerged and murdered them, it was better to move the party elsewhere. 

He half-patted, half-pushed the two outside before more damage could be done. Buttercup could end up making it worse.

“All right all right, it seems like it’s time to go to the tavern,” he announced. Bull and his Chargers would make enough of a ruckus to distract Sera.

Chapter Text

**She was covered in substances she usually avoided getting anywhere near her skin: mud, some viscous mixture she couldn’t identify, and—cheese wheels. 

Yes, she had cheese on her eyes. Vivienne had insisted it would be “restorative,” and Nuria wasn’t about to challenge an Orlesian’s sense of beauty rituals. After setting her up with Dorian—looking far too pleased with herself to hide it—Vivienne had left with an excuse, her gown swishing as she swept out of the room. 

Yes, she was giggling as she left.

They’d grown closer, but not quite close enough to share in this particular brand of “luxury” together. So here she was with Dorian, covered in a mud bath with cheese on their eyes. It was sticky and oily at the same time.

The mud was warm. A rune underneath the bathtub ensured that the temperature would be just right, but none ever warned her about the odor that warm mud would have. Apparently it was Vivienne’s secret for her perfect skin and she drained her own reserve to allow them to bathe like that; Nuria really wanted to believe her.

She never felt dirtier in her whole life. But that somehow detracted from her heartbreak. The weird sensorial sensations she was feeling at the moment made her feel in the here and now more than she felt ever since Crestwood.

As Nuria recounted her last, painful conversation with Solas, she could feel Dorian growing increasingly confused, then restless, as the not so pleasant noises of moving mud beside her increased.

“So, let me get this straight,” he began, indignant and exasperated. “He spends days practicing his little love speech.” She felt him move further, maybe raising a hand, but with cheese on her eyes, she couldn't see. “Then took you all the way to Crestwood looking like he was about to propose.” She felt some drops of mud falling on her face. Yes, he was gesturing animatedly.

“Andraste’s tits, Nuria. He apologizes for loving you, then he leaves after this whole romantic reveal of truth and spellwork?” 

Dorian slapped or punched the surface of his mud bath and drops flew all around him, hitting Nuria as well. She and Dorian whimpered. He sputtered. She snickered.

In the warm, musky mud bath, Dorian was trying very hard to be dignified.

“Honestly, for a man so full of cryptic wisdom, he certainly knows how to be theatrical. Vhenan ,” he said, mimicking Solas’s soft voice with disdain.

That earned him a little chuckle.

“Does he think he's in an ancient romance novel?” he added, both compassionate and slightly sarcastic, as if he were trying to find the right balance between concern and levity. “I mean, 'I distracted you from your duty'? And the secrets? I—” Dorian just stayed silent for a few seconds, and concluded with a, 

“I'm sorry, Nuri.”

Nuria fumbled looking for Dorian's hand, and after a few ridiculous attempts she found it. He held her hand tight.

“Are you…okay with that?" She felt him shift beside her, but the cheese didn't allow her to see her friend properly.

She took a while to reply. "No.” She pressed her lips together, before a sob could escape her throat. Dorian squeezed her hand.

“But he always tried to warn me. It’s my fault—I was too stubborn to listen." 

"You will not blame yourself for this," he said firmly. "He's the one who left without a word of explanation."

She knew he was right. She’d seen hints of Solas’s connection to something ancient—something beyond what she could grasp. She’d questioned whether his secrets could be dangerous to the Inquisition, but he had only ever helped them, and she trusted him. 

Of course she had Leliana investigate, and nothing suspicious had surfaced. Still, the ache in her chest only deepened, and more tears began to fall.

She felt a hollow ache in the place where her heart had once been. But what did it matter? That was her mistake—letting someone in this close. She’d known he had his secrets, felt him wrestling with himself, so close to telling her. 

But in the end, his secrets won. 

Her mind told her she couldn’t blame him; her body, though, was aching, her heart both shattered and aflame. She kept rubbing her chest, as though the pressure would soothe the hurt. It didn’t, of course. Nothing would.

More tears slipped down her cheek. She didn't feel sad; why would she cry? There was just this pain that endured.

"I don't know how I feel," she admitted softly, hearing Dorian draw a quiet breath beside her. "I am so stupid." The words escaped her in a trembling breath. 

She took a deep breath, felt the burn behind her eyes, the hollow ache in her chest. She spent a second analyzing herself like an external spectator.

It was a pull towards him. All her body wanted was to be enveloped in his warmth, relaxing in his embrace, smell his familiar scent and be lulled to sleep by the feeling of him.

She couldn't have that anymore, and it hurt. So it was…longing. She gave a hollow laugh. She’d never felt that before. She would have rather not known how that felt.

Dorian’s voice broke through her thoughts. "You're not stupid, my dear. You just trusted the wrong person."

And yet, she knew deep down she could still trust Solas. Even if he didn’t want her anymore, she knew his heart was in the right place. Whatever secrets he held, she believed he would never hurt her or Thedas. It felt as if he were hiding something monstrous within himself—that she could understand. 

But knowing that didn’t make the hurt any less sharp. Now that she was fully present, feeling everything, that much was clear. Her breath hitched, but she took a steadying breath. Dorian leaned in, wrapping her in a muddy, smothering hug.

She chuckled through the mud and cheese stuck to her eyes. "This is disgusting."

Dorian laughed along with her, his voice warm and gentle. "Absolutely revolting. And somehow, oddly fitting, given the mood. I don’t know if Vivienne set this up for a 'restorative' experience or just to laugh at us later."

Nuria wiped at her eyes, though with mud caked on her hands, it didn’t help much. She sighed, this time with a little more clarity. "She’s definitely laughing right now. Probably drinking wine and calling this a ‘character-building exercise.’"

Dorian leaned back, adjusting himself in the mud, cheese still clinging to his hair. "Well, she can laugh all she wants. I’ve built enough character for a lifetime. And as for you—" his tone softened, serious now, “—You’ve survived much worse than this. Heartbreak is...an insidious beast, I’ll give it that. But you have defeated much worse."

She stared at the ceiling, the heaviness of the moment hanging between them. "I feel… hollow. Like I’m stuck between feeling everything and feeling nothing at all."

"That’s grief," Dorian said softly. "It tricks you into thinking you’re empty when really, it’s just too much to process at once."

She didn't think of that. Grief over an ended love story. Absurd but fitting. Her gaze drifted, and for a moment, she saw memories like ghosts in the mud around them—the soldiers fallen under her banner, the hard choices made in the Inquisition’s name, Hawke’s final smirk as he made a sacrifice she’d never forget. Somehow, this heartbreak fit among those tragedies, painful in a way that no battlefield wound had been. 

Because during every tragedy, he would be there, supporting her. After every wound, he would be there to hold her, to heal her. It felt absurd, grieving over something that wasn’t a death but felt so close to it.

Nuria wiped more mud from her cheeks, leaning into the absurdity of the moment. "I still can't believe I’m crying over a man while covered in literal cheese."

Dorian smirked. "As a Tevinter, I can assure you, there are worse fates than crying in cheese. But let’s not lose perspective—he didn’t deserve you. If he truly cared, if he waswere the man worthy of you, he would have stayed. He wouldn’t have left you in this state."

She hesitated, her voice breaking slightly. "Despite all the hurt, I don’t think he ever meant to cause it."

Dorian sighed, his tone softening. "Belief in someone’s goodness is a rare thing. It’s what makes you... well, you. But be careful, my dear. Caring for someone doesn't mean letting them tear you apart."

Nuria took a deep breath. He was right—she knew he was. But that didn’t make the hurt any less real, or the sense of loss any less suffocating. She leaned into his shoulder, both of them covered in mud and remnants of cheese, finding a small moment of comfort in their shared ridiculousness.

"Thanks, Dorian," she murmured. "For everything."

He smiled, wrapping an arm around her in solidarity. "What are friends for if not to endure awful mud baths and cheesy heartbreaks together?"

Nuria chuckled softly, wiping at her face again. "Maybe next time, we skip the cheese."

"Agreed," Dorian replied with mock solemnity. "No more cheese baths. Only wine from here on out."

He squeezed her and then raised, making an affronted sound at the sight of mud traveling off his body.

“One more thing. If he tries getting closer, I have a delightful range of hexes I meant to try out.” He meant to be funny, but anger clouded any attempt of making his voice light.

“Dorian…” she started.

“If he comes back crawling, just to hurt you again, he will pay. You're not alone, and there are people that care for you,” he concluded, climbing carefully out of the mud bath and calling out servants.

She could tell someone born in luxury by the way they called servants. There was a note of normalcy and carelessness she never managed.

-

When she got clean, Nuria felt like a person again. She had time for herself that day, and she wanted to make the most of it. 

She found herself eager to delve into the newfound knowledge about her people. At her desk, a letter from her Keeper awaited her, accompanied by a note from her little brother. She regularly wrote to them, sharing updates on her work with the Inquisition, especially her efforts on behalf of the elves. The recent events at the Well of Sorrows, meeting Mythal, led to the discovery of a world-shaking truth: Mythal was killed.

Mythal was killed, but Fen’harel did not kill her; apparently he was friendly with her. Discovering that profoundly shook her worldview, and she had sought her Keeper’s guidance.

Nuria’s fingers lingered on a thumbprint her brother had left on the corner of his smaller note. She pressed her own thumb against it, sighing softly. It was bigger than hers. Their writing was a bit messy, as they were not accustomed to ink and parchment. 

Keeper Deshanna, in disbelief over her findings, acknowledged that Nuria’s unique position would lead to extraordinary discoveries. She promised to dedicate special worship to Mythal and agreed to place some incense beneath Fen’harel’s statues as a gesture of acknowledgment, but nothing more; she did not want to invite bad luck, having narrowly escaped death themselves. She also noted that it was Nuria’s destiny to meet Mythal, given her Vallaslin. 

She wondered though if that would really be Mythal. If it was, why not answer her people's prayers?

That was their last letter. So much had happened since then, and there was so much more she wished to tell them. The delay of weeks between their communications felt heavier each day, each time some new world shaking truth hit her. 

As she did many times before, she wondered if she should visit them in dreams. 

The idea became more tempting each passing day. Her Keeper did not know that she was a Dreamer.

She couldn't risk it again. 

But what she wouldn’t give for a conversation with her teacher, friend, and putative mother. She sighed, pressing two fingers to her lips and then to the Keeper’s signature.

Opening one of the drawers of her desk, she carefully and respectfully handled the journals within. She still wasn’t used to being so wealthy. Before becoming the Herald, when she was just another First in any other clan, parchment had been a rare luxury—so rare, in fact, that they had only one scroll, which each member of the clan would sign upon coming of age. Having as much parchment as she desired now was not something she took for granted, and all of hers were neatly filled to the brim with information she wanted all Dalish to have in the future. She looked at her anchor for a moment, and then continued with her day. 

Nuria sat down and began documenting her recent discoveries in the Fade. She had glimpsed Mythal and Fen’harel, images that left her puzzled. 

She saw a slave with Elgarn’nan’s Vallaslin seeking the Dread Wolf’s aid, kneeling before the Giant Wolf, asking for freedom. Why would the Wolf grant him freedom? Was it a trick, or was there more context she was missing? She also sought and found a memory of the Hero of Ferelden, fighting ‘Flemeth’ in dragon form on behalf of Morrigan. Then there was what Solas said about Falon’din and the Vallaslin. She struggled writing that down, as if it made it real, as if it meant accepting that to be true.

After completing her notes, Nuria turned to carving a miniature Fen’Harel to add to her portable altar, a small satchel containing miniature representations of the Gods. 

She didn't even know if she believed in something anymore. In Crestwood, in that intense moment of realization, knowing that her Gods marked slaves on their face made them feel like cruel tyrants and nothing more, the kind her people promised to fight tooth and nail.

It wasn't just Solas that she was mourning, but every holiday she celebrated, every prayer, every time she defended her faith in the face of prejudice. Everything she believed about herself and the Dalish.

She decided to turn off her brain. She would think about it, but not today.

She planned to spend the morning curing her heartbreak with creativity. She intended to use some of the resins she used for various purposes to create golden decorations for the hollows of the figurines, but she had never found the time. A free morning, she realized, wasn’t so bad after all. 

She also decided to paint fake Vallaslin on her face, ostensibly for the reasons she had given her advisors, but also because she did not have the heart to recount the story of her heartbreak to every single person who met her.

As she worked, Nuria felt a sense of peace settle over her. The act of creation, the connection to her heritage, and the tangible representation of her people’s stories and deities were comforting. Home was so far.

Even if all the stories were wrong, it made her feel like she still belonged somewhere, like she still had a place. 

Except she didn’t. 

She could never go back, not permanently, at least. 

Not with the humans calling her Herald and seeking her for blessings, not without the rumors of her being the New Bride of the Maker. Sometimes it seemed that they forgot she was a Dalish Elf, and removing her Vallaslin wouldn’t help. Maybe she should ask Solas to give them back to her.

“Focus,” she ordered her body, and she did. 

After a while her mind was filled only with her task. The sound of shavings being formed stilled her mind, the rough touch of wood put her heart to rest. Not the Inquisitor, the Herald, not the broken-hearted woman. For a moment, she was just her hands, turning wood into a benevolent wolf.

When she’d finished working, the beautiful dress Vivienne and Dorian chose for her was full of wooden residue from her work, but was saved from the resins. She cleaned herself up and then took a look in the mirror for the first time. She hadn’t really paid attention when they were in full dress-up mode: they braided her hair in a delicate half updo she would never be able to accomplish by herself, and dressed her in a pink gown with roses made of silk, forming a trail of beauty that climbed up from the floor to the generous neckline. At least it didn't  require a crinoline, but it was definitely more luxurious than anything she was accustomed to. 

Vivienne even put light makeup on her; this time at least it didn’t itch. She vaguely thought about how much that gown was worth and how that money would have been better spent elsewhere, instead of playing dress up in her tower and never be used again. She sighed and called a servant to help her escape that hell of lace, changing to her Dalish hunting clothes.

Today she didn’t feel like wearing the human appeasing silks that Josephine made her wear around Skyhold. She was almost out of resins after her little experiment; time to stock up, and she surely couldn’t do it in that gown. 

She asked that same servant to call up Zore and invite her for an outing in the forest. She set to paint her Vallaslins back, the dye she prepared now ready to be used. She painted her face, and as she did it, she was reminded of the kids that would paint their faces to appear older, as an experiment to see what their faces would look like with them, or in rituals where one of the Creators was worshiped and honored, albeit temporarily, with those Vallaslin. 

When she was done, she recognized her face again. She had seen a stranger in the mirror until that moment. Before heading out, she took a good look, making sure that they didn't look weird. It would take a very keen observer to notice the difference. She left the half updo alone; it was very pretty, and she was not planning on taking a dragon that day. She would survive.

When she went down to the hall, Zore was waiting for her. She was a Dalish like her, with Andruil’s Vallaslins, long blonde hair tied in a ponytail, and blue eyes. She was taller than her, had long graceful legs, and she either had mischief or murder in her eyes. She was also wearing her Dalish hunting gear; without her Inquisition’s garments, she looked more like herself. They made fast friends during a mission, much to Sera’s dismay, but she could be just jealous that Nuria has another bow-wielding friend.

"Inquisitor," Zore said with a small smile. "What are your plans for this morning?"

"We’re going resin hunting. I’ve finished mine, and I need it."

"What, are you afraid you’re going to smell bad?"

"That too, but how else would I stick your hair to my armor?" They chuckled, reminiscing about that time. They were on their way out when Sera popped out of thin air next to them.

"Hey elfy squad, where you going?"

Nuria smiled. "Doing the most dreadful elfy thing ever.” She made a dramatic pause, and even stopped. “Gathering resources in the forest."

Sera responded with a groan so loud it would qualify as a shout,

"Boring." Then added, "No hunting, Zore? I want a rematch. You just got lucky!"

Zore turned, with a glint of challenge in her eyes.

"Lucky? I think not. But if you’re up for it, I’m always ready to beat your cute ass."

Nuria went between the two with a knowing smile and made a gesture. "Why don’t you join us, Sera? You can both show off your hunting skills, and I’ll gather resins.”

Sera, of course, was waiting for an invitation. Not that she would ever admit to it though. 

"Hah! You’re on. Just don’t cry when I win, Zore." Her response was immediate, with equal amounts of mischief and murder in her eyes. "We’ll see who’s crying by the end of it."

They walked side by side into the heart of the forest, Nuria breathing in deeply as the rich scents of earth, moss, and pine filled her lungs. Home. Her halla trotted beside her, ears perked and steps lively, clearly enjoying the change of scenery as much as she was.

Around them, the forest held a peaceful stillness, the feeling of infinity. Eras would come and go, as the fleeting life of its inhabitants, but the forest would stand there. Imposing and quiet.

It would have been if not for the bickering between Zore and Sera about who was the best hunter. That made it feel like home. Dalish were not quiet, it was like they wanted to fill the forest with noise, to affirm their existence by filling the void around them.

She turned towards the two blondes and suggested, “Why don’t you just start your competition? I can gather stuff by myself.”

“Oh yeah!” Sera shouted enthusiastically. 

As birds flew away, Zore retorted, accusatorily, “You just scared away half the prey!”

“Just wanted to make it harder for you.”

The two women dismounted and went straight into their competition. Nuria smiled, amused. She gathered what she needed in the tranquil forest, the birds chirping and the sound of a nearby stream soothing her. She relished on the feeling of her feet touching the soft ground, the occasional needle patch, the warmth of dirt. When Cole appeared behind her, she greeted him with a smile.

"You’re hurting less," he observed.

"Yes, by doing things one likes, everything hurts less." 

Cole was still learning how to help people without just making them forget their hurt.

"You like touching plants," he added with the same tone as before.

Nuria chuckled. "Yes, you could say that. It reminds me of home,” she explained.

"You’d rather not fight." He read her, but she didn’t mind anymore.

"But if I do, I can help people," she affirmed. With him, and Spirits in general, denial was useless.

“That helping hurts. Cuts, slices, bruises. Not just them. Bloody hands, guilty, violent. World of peace through blood.”

Nuria took his hands, and gently guided him to sit in front of her. Cole let her do it. 

“Cole, sometimes we have to do things we don't like in order to do something good. Fighting is that for me. I don't want to do it, but if I don't, people will suffer.”

“Blood on my hands. Enemies better than family. I understand,” concluded Cole with a nod.

“I'm glad.” Nuria smiled and held his hands a bit tighter. “As long as you don't forget who you are, Compassion . You fight to help, to protect good people from pain.”

Cole nodded and stayed silent and thoughtful for a while. Nuria waited for him to emerge from his thoughts.

"You like helping. I like that, too. We should help together if it helps the hurt."

Nuria nodded, smiling at him. Then her mind wandered, and before she could voice her thoughts, Cole responded to her unspoken wish.

"I can’t make you forget love."

"It was worth asking," she replied, though she hadn’t voiced the question. 

Cole disappeared without another word, and soon she was done gathering. She returned to the meeting point, but Sera and Zore were nowhere to be found. She was faster than she thought; their challenge might take a while. She looked around, feeling suddenly drained. 

She could use a nap and perhaps explore the Dreaming in that area.

She set wards like Solas had taught her, and under a tree, with the gentle wind blowing and the familiar sounds of the forest, she fell asleep.

-

In the Fade she was first greeted by another nightmare relating to Solas, harsh words coming out of his mouth. She could see the outlines of a spirit of Desperation using his form to try and feed off her suffering.

“You’re a monster and I regret any entanglement we had.” A disgusted expression.

“It was all just a game, I never cared.” A cruel smile.

He would never say those things; it was easy to ignore it. 

She wished it away with a gesture and got rid of it, finding herself in that same forest, but different. She was surprised by the amount of Spirits that lingered there. 

She saw agile Spirits of Curiosity jump from tree to tree, tiny wisps that changed form at every turn, never satisfied with their curiosity for a new shape. She observed one for a few minutes, it was experimenting to see how many legs are too much on a spider's body to walk. As new legs kept sprouting, she chuckled. 

There were many spirits of Despair closed in themselves and their pain, just blankets weeping in her eyes. But there were also spirits of Hope and Faith, brilliant and shifting from humanoid to pure light, to abstract forms to represent concepts. Spirits of Rage, and Fear, wondering about memories of battles fought. Finally, Spirits of Justice and Valor, martial and serious, stalk the forest looking for something to apply their purpose too. 

Among these Spirits there were ancient memories, and she followed those. What could bring so many of these spirits here? Looking around, the Spirit of Curiosity borne of her showed up. Today it decided to experiment by becoming a rock with spider web legs that walked by weaving webs and dragging the rock with it. It looked extremely uncomfortable, but the Spirit spent a whole five minutes telling her how incredibly fun that was. As always, the Spirit was recognizable by the choice of flashy colors. Today, it was an unnaturally bright yellow to green tint. She started walking, Curiosity in tow, excited to explore new memories, lamenting, “He never lets us explore what we want. No fun. Us alone is fun!”

There was a Spirit that took the form of a wolf near them, but it seemed to mind its own business. Unlike the one spirit that every night would observe her from afar, never approaching her or showing itself. She felt its presence, always looking, never doing anything else. 

“Hello, Mystery,” she said. No response. 

Classic Mystery.

She observed a group stalking towards Skyhold with purpose, speaking Ancient Elvhen.

“He will protect us. The False Gods will not hurt us anymore.”

“He is one of them,” protested another faded voice.

“He rebelled, as did we. He can grant us freedom.”

The memory repeated itself, a Spirit of Hope happily hovering on it. She then went to a warrior seemingly stuck in a battle cry.

“For our freedom, for Fen’harel!”

Solas mentioned many times that he didn’t believe the Creators to be Gods. Was this what he meant? He loved teaching her, but they never ended up looking for memories of the Creators. 

Why would he not show her? Maybe because there were more interesting things to him than that? A Spirit of Faith accompanied the cry, imitating it. Were these people talking about the same Fen’harel she knew? That would confirm what she learned, but it would have been a step back. She wished she could see a glimpse of him in a memory. 

She sometimes saw a shadow of an elf in furs, but nothing more.

She wandered the Fade looking, and Curiosity pointed out a promising memory. She could see from afar the man with a wolf cape over him. Way to show your fashion sense. As she got closer, she noticed that the memory was just him saying a single word to a faded figure.

“Veil.” 

The voice was distorted but weirdly familiar. She moved closer, wanting to go around to see his face, and then a cloud of darkness surrounded them. She scoffed. It happened from time to time, memories being clouded in black and then...When the cloud disappeared, the memory was gone. 

And then she suddenly woke up.

“INKY!” shouted Sera, jolting her awake with such fury that by the time she came to herself, her staff was ready in her hand. She went into ambush mode.

“I told you she could hear,” said a smug Sera to an embarrassed Zore, just outside her ward.

The Inquisitor lowered the wards, the Fade still in her eyes. The memories jumbled in her head. She was trying to cling to something that was escaping her.

But the rogues didn’t have time for her to wake up.

“You have to be the judge. Sera is trying to cheat me.” 

Sera blew raspberries in response. When she came to, Zore was dragging a massive boar, whereas Sera had ten hares neatly arranged on a stick.

Sera was the first to talk. ”I say I win ‘cause it’s ten prey. It took more arrows.”

In the same breath, Zore replied, “And I say I win ‘cause I killed a massive boar with two arrows and dragged it all the way here.”

The Inquisitor was still blinking herself awake, the memories she encountered and the one that disappeared still fresh in her mind. Being the judge and disappointing one of them wasn’t what she wanted to do now.

“I have an idea.” She raised a finger, then yawned. She still was tired after all.

Sera rubbed her hands, whispering to Zore. “When she starts with that, it’s gonna be good.”

“Well, how about you gather the hunters of the Inquisition and make it a vote? A show of applause.”

“And the winner has to run without their knickers in the yard!” Sera was enthused by her own idea.

“I didn’t say that,” said Nuria, but it was too late.

“You’re on!” Zore’s eyes brimmed with defiance.

What had she done?

-

When they returned to Skyhold, she left the two women to their competition. The voice from her dream had faded from her memory. It was familiar, but she didn’t have time to place it, and she had no time to linger on ancient mysteries anymore. It was late already, and she had work to do.

Including meeting Solas for one of their Fade lessons. Would she dare cancel? It would be so easy to send a messenger to say that she couldn’t. Why did she send away that awfully weird trainer? Oh yeah, she and Solas were too happy to have an excuse to spend more time alone together. 

He did teach her, but sometimes it was just an excuse to go out on dates, like that time after Halamshiral.

-

THE PAST

On the slow journey back from Halamshiral, the Inquisition forces made camp near a forgotten and barely-visible ruin. Solas had asked Nuria to join him for a Fade exploration, and she had gladly accepted. Being truly alone was a rare luxury for them during travel, and that time the plan was to sneak out and return before the last watch—the one the Inquisitor assigned to herself and him. When she reached their meeting point, he was waiting for her.

"Vhenan," he whispered in that breathless way that always made her heart sing. She flung herself into his arms, and he caught her gladly. They only managed to look at each other for a second, then their lips connected. 

After the stress of Halamshiral and narrowly escaping death once again, feeling him close was paradise. He kissed her like a starving man, as if he could only breathe with his lips on hers. He pressed her closer in a tight embrace, and she did the same, clutching at his clothes. When they separated for breath, she jokingly whispered, "Eager, aren’t we?"

"Always," he replied, his voice silky and dripping with desire. Their embrace became more heated, his hands wandering over her figure and back, sometimes aimlessly as if he couldn’t get enough, and other times precisely, making her dizzy with want.

Eventually, they made it to the ruin. It was immense, and she would have loved to explore every nook and cranny, but Solas gently nudged her to a specific location. When they reached it, she could tell.

A single massive wall suggested the might of what once was, and the statues lining the walls promised clues of more Ancient Elvhen grandeur.

"They built the Winter Palace on what they thought was the most magnificent palace of Ancient Elvhenan. They were wrong. This was it." He very dramatically gestured at the room.

She walked the floor of the massive ballroom, taking in all the details as Solas continued his tale. 

"It was the main temple of Mythal and Elgar’nan."

Each step echoed what once was. The ground beneath her feet was smooth, a surface unlike anything she'd ever known. It was as if time had worn away every sharp edge, leaving only stone in its wake. She scanned the walls, where precious gems once adorned mosaics, where statues once gleamed had now empty eye sockets, where vibrant paintings likely once hung—now all vanished. 

Yet, with every step forward, she felt an undeniable pull toward a history as alien to her mind as it was familiar to her soul. Perhaps it was her bloodline that stirred, an ancestral memory awakening. A subtle tingling spread through her fingertips, as if they, too, remembered what had been lost. 

Yet, as she moved through the room, she felt a connection to it, a strange sense of belonging. Her fingertips brushed against the walls, tracing the faint remnants of carvings that had once been intricate and detailed. They tingled as if they were trying to remember, to feel what had once been here. She closed her eyes, trying to picture the room as it had been—filled with light and music, with the rustle of fabric and the murmur of voices. 

But even with her eyes closed, the reality of the ruin remained. The past was gone, lost to time, but it lingered in the air, in the stones beneath her feet, in the very bones of this place. She could almost feel it calling to her, urging her to remember, to reclaim something that had been forgotten. It was as if the blood in her veins was stirring, whispering secrets of a time long past, secrets that had been etched into her soul even before she was born. 

This was more than just a ruin; it was a graveyard of memories, a place where time had stood still, where the echoes of the past still lingered. And as she stood in the center of the ballroom, she felt those echoes reaching out to her, wrapping around her, pulling her deeper into the mystery of what once was. It was a history she had never known, yet it was hers, part of her very being, waiting to be uncovered. Solas didn't say anything, but observed her taking in the place. She kept looking around but couldn’t help asking.

"Why is there a ballroom in a temple? And why was there a conjoined temple of them? Were they actually married?" She stopped at a statue of Mythal, or what remained of it, and picked up a fragment from the floor.

"Eager, aren’t we?" he replied, so close she could feel his breath on the nape of her neck. He grazed her skin with his teeth, then bit suddenly, insistently, possessively, making her take a sharp breath; he hummed in approval, then kissed gently on the same spot. This left her breathless and scatterbrained as he innocently took a step back, put his hands behind his back and resumed his tale.

"There were different ways to appease the Gods, and one of them was holding dances that lasted months. They would take place between the Dreaming and the Waking, in a seamless and endless stream of music, intrigue, sex, and backstabbing that only ended when one of the Gods was pleased enough to grant what was asked for."

Nuria examined what once was a massive window, overlooking what used to be a grandiose garden. If she squinted, she could almost see the flowers.

"And Elgar’nan and Mythal being conjoined—yes, you could say they were married. It’s a...tad more complicated than that."

"And which of these dances would you have witnessed?" she asked, only half-jokingly.

It was sudden; a passionate battle, a struggle for dominance where neither of them truly sought to conquer the other. It was a dance of equals, a mingling of desire and unspoken words, where the outcome was irrelevant, and the act itself became everything. 

She knew that it was one of the many ways he distracted her when she got too close to his secrets, to the truth. She did the same. She couldn’t complain when the distraction was a scorched exchange of lips and tongue, teeth and breath.

When they parted, he leaned his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips, savoring the moment.

“I’ll never finish the story,” he whispered, his voice low and breathless, a trace of laughter hidden within the words. He was admitting defeat, though not unhappily.

She smiled, tenderly, savoring the moment, touching his cheek with a free hand. Then gave him one quick kiss and took a step back, putting her hands behind her back innocently, as he did. He nodded and resumed. 

"As I was saying, during these dances, kings were crowned and killed, entire empires rose from coups, and Spirits of Desire were turned into spies to pry secrets in between moans. Clever individuals ascended from slaves to nobles simply because they knew how to play the Game."

He spoke with wonder, admiration, and nostalgia. She turned to take in his expression. The way his eyes sparkled when he recounted these tales always stirred a wave of love within her. She could have listened to him speak with such enthusiasm for days. 

For a moment, his expression turned sour. He chased the thought away, and, facing her, he continued.

"But tonight, we’re here for something different. Back at the Winter Palace, I fear I didn’t do justice to your desire to dance. I formally invite you to dance with me and join one of these events." He bowed elegantly, in a form she hadn’t seen in the palace, something she would have never guessed he would do.

"You danced very well in Halamshiral," she assured him.

"Not at all, vhenan. I am not familiar with the songs and dances of the Orlesian court, and that balcony wasn't very spacious. So I thought I would give you a proper dance, if it pleases you."

"Of course," she replied, taking his hand. He effortlessly sent her into a twirl that ended in a backward dip, her back supported only by his arms. His face was just a breath away from hers. She was already flushed. He, as always, enjoyed rendering her boneless. His smile was scorching, his eyes lustful. She could scarcely breathe.

"But first, we need to sleep." He raised her back up, and they found a relatively clean corner of the room. They cast barriers and cuddled, finding a reasonably comfortable position.

"Good night, ma vhenan. Ar lath ma."

"Ar lath ma," Nuria whispered back, already content. 

Falling asleep in his arms, hearing his heartbeat, was as natural as breathing deeply in a meadow in spring.

-

She woke up in a vivid memory. The room around her was beyond words: elementals and delicate streams of wisps illuminated the night, dancing all around in harmonious and gentle comets of light. The air smelled of exotic food she didn't recognize but which made her mouth water all the same. The ballroom was grand, enormous, and the walls seemed to extend endlessly, their light melting into magical scenes for people to enjoy. There were gardens where flowers danced, trees formed chairs, and ancient beings played games involving intricate streams of color and magic she didn’t understand.

The guests were a sight to behold: ancient Elvhen, their frames larger and broader than the elves she knew, draped in gowns that Dorian and Vivienne would die for, some of the textiles seemed too unreal to be mere fabric. Gowns made of constellations that beamed distantly, others with real vines growing and pulsing around them, and many women had flowers blooming on their dresses, perhaps a trend of the era. But this was the least surprising thing. 

Some had animal parts, whether wings, horns, or claws instead of nails, that made her reminisce of Mythal. Some guests were actual animals, conversing with the others, dancing on the floor, in the air, and in and out of the Fade. The room was white and pristine, beautifully decorated with moving statues of Mythal and Elgar'nan, their love story, their family, and allies, including Fen'harel. She stared at these moving works of art, and a tear falling on the back of her hand made her realize she was weeping at the beauty and wonder of it all. She immediately started wiping them away, trying to control her reaction. They had never explored anything so vivid and beautiful.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking around again, unable to take in the beauty of it all. "I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life."

"Me neither." She turned back to Solas, noticing that his modest clothes had been replaced by a flowing, midnight-blue robe made of the finest enchanted silk, shimmering subtly with threads of silver and moonlight. Beneath the robe, a tailored tunic of deep forest green was visible, woven with a texture reminiscent of fur. The tunic was embroidered with delicate motifs of intertwined vines and hidden eyes, giving the impression of a guardian of the wild. 

He exuded striking elegance and enigmatic allure, fitting perfectly with the rest of the room, as if he belonged there. But he looked at her with an expression she had never seen before, a complex mix of love, tenderness, desire, wonder, and something deeper and more painful. It was a look she was accustomed to, but the magnitude of it was new.

Looking at herself was just as surprising. Her gown appeared to be crafted from pure moonlight, shimmering and ethereal, with beams of silvery light cascading from an off-the-shoulder cape that draped delicately in the air, turning into light that slowly dissipated. The dress molded to her form, flowing seamlessly into a voluminous, swirling skirt that seemed as light as feathers, and at times, even appeared to be made of them. Delicate silver jewelry adorned her, creating a soft, melodic jingle with every movement. Her hair was elegantly braided and styled into an intricate updo, interwoven with strands of fine, sparkling silver, while a few delicate tendrils framed her face, adding to her otherworldly allure. It was the attire of a moon goddess, and it was surely his doing. When the shock passed, she looked at him.

"Is this how you’d like to see me?"

He took a step closer and put both hands on her waist. He drank her in for a long moment before replying.

"Yes," with a finality that surprised her. Then, he leaned closer with a look that made her hold her breath. He took time to deliberately come closer, lips just a breath away from her skin as he traveled his way through her cheek and jaw; he breathed in her ear, chuckling as she shuddered. Only then he whispered in her ear, "One of many ways." 

She blushed violently, leaning forward to place a kiss on his cheek and whispering back, "Sweet talker." After all that teasing she needed to touch him, even the most innocent of touches.

He took her face in his hands, his features softening with tenderness.

"You are so lovely when you blush," he said, observing her carefully and giving her a tender kiss. “It’s too tempting to resist.” Then, he took one of her hands and led her to the center of the dance floor. On their way, she asked, "Whose memory is this?"

"It belongs to someone who considered this place his second home." There was something in his tone, he wanted to hide something. She looked around again, to observe more of what was going on. 

He was offering her something as close to the truth, to himself, as he ever dared to; she wouldn’t press him.

She noticed a group of people gathered around...the void. It was unmistakable; they formed a semi-circle around nothing, their heads craned upwards. They were all smiling, especially two beautiful Elvhen women in the group.

"Why are they talking to the void? Is it a spell?" she wondered out loud.

He spinned her, and they found themselves in the center of the ballroom, under a chandelier made of diamonds and northern lights. The music swelled gently, slowly, with instruments she had never heard before, something otherworldly yet familiar. Perhaps it was something in her blood reacting to the sound. She realized she was about to weep again. He kissed the top of her hand.

"I have a proposal. For tonight, no intrigues, no mysteries, just us." The look in his eyes was intimate and open in a way she had never seen before. It was delicate and fragile, making her want to protect him. She nodded.

That dreamy night had it all. It started slow, in a dance where they were so close their foreheads touched. Then Solas taught her some basic moves, the music following their rhythm. They ended up in a flurry of dances, from grand, swelling ones where they twirled harmoniously to intimate, sensual dances that left her breathless with just a brush of his hand over her thigh or a look. He knew the effect he had on her and enjoyed thoroughly every second of it.

The memories of that night tangled together with smiles, kisses, and laughs. She managed to bring music to life in the Fade, leading him through the intricate footwork of Dalish dances, cheering when he got them right. He looked open and happy like never before—unburdened, focused on the present moment, and having fun. It made him look younger, brighter, giving her a glimpse of what could be if his secrets didn’t weigh so heavily on him. But he said it was just them tonight, so she shook any heavy thoughts away and chased happiness. He made it so easy, after all. 

She found herself breathless, but he reminded her that the limits of their bodies didn’t matter in the Fade, and she could choose not to be tired. She had some success, but sometimes she needed to slow down.

During these moments, they chatted about unimportant things. He described the wonders around the room, while she told him of the wonders of her own world, of the little things—like the nights she spent chasing her brother, sleeping in trees, and getting reprimanded by a teary Keeper through hugs the day after.

They even managed to dance in the air with the other dancers for a bit, but she couldn't maintain her floating self-image in the Fade for long and started falling. She tightened her grip on Solas' neck, and he just held her tighter, laughing lightheartedly.

"Don’t laugh, take me down," she said, half laughing.

"Why would I? I’ve never enjoyed such a tight embrace from you, vhenan."

"You're not funny," she said through a laugh, trying to sound convincing.

"I think my strength is faltering," he replied with the fakest worried expression she’d ever seen.

"What are you—" He didn’t let her finish, making them fall a full meter down, eliciting a yelp from her.

"I’ve never heard you make that sound in battle," he reflected with a smile, setting her gently on the blessedly hard floor.

"You’re a menace," she whispered, her heart still racing. He peppered her temples with kisses until she was ready to let go.

He then led her in an intimate dance, happily mumbling along with the music as she rested her head on his chest.

"We should throw a ball. I’d like to dance like this with you in the waking world."

"It’s better if I don’t. You remember how I was announced at Halamshiral. Seeing an elven servant dancing with the Inquisitor would not play in your favor."

"And you would miss the chance to humiliate Vivienne on the dance floor?"

He chuckled and gave her a kiss through his smile.

"Wisely said," he replied, looking wistfully around. "But I miss the pettiness of court intrigue, and being an authority figure who doesn’t have to beg to get his opinion heard."

"Authority figure?” He was an elven apostate, what authority was he talking about? It slipped her, she broke their deal.

He looked over her shoulder as the memory slowly faded, the sunshine of the real world seeping through.

"We’d better go, vhenan. Dawn has almost come, and we have the last watch to cover."

-

The memory of that happy night faded as she encountered Solas in the hall, the stark difference between his face then and now filling her with sadness. The potential for what could have been, and the weight of whatever burdened him so heavily, cast a dark shadow over their life. He seemed surprised to see her, and not too eager to start their lesson either, but neither of them had the courage to cancel on the other face to face.

"Inquisitor, it's time for your lesson," he said formally. "I will be in your study at once, unless you wish to change the setting of your class."

What an elegant way to try and avoid being alone with her.

"It depends on the contents of the lesson," she replied. "If we are to explore the Fade, I'd rather use my study. I’m afraid of what Sera would draw on your face if she found us sleeping in the rotunda."

That earned her a dry chuckle that he quickly suppressed. "That would be troublesome. However, today's lesson involves barriers. I'd like to teach you how to use them creatively—to pin down opponents, raise yourself out of danger, and drop back on enemies, for example."

"To the rotunda then," she said, steeling herself for the inevitable awkwardness.

Chapter Text

SOLAS

The rotunda hummed with whispers, the soft murmur of gossip weaving through the air like an unwelcome draft. All eyes—discreet yet pointed—drifted toward Nuria as though she waswere the center of a gravity none of them could resist. 

She stood poised, back straight, chin lifted, but Solas saw the telltale signs of discomfort: the faint tightening of her jaw, the slight shift of her weight, the way her hands clenched a little too tightly, in front of her.

The weight of their collective stares bore down on her; she had worked tirelessly to build a reputation as an elf among humans, to command respect not just as the Inquisitor but as a Dalish woman in a world that saw her heritage as foreign, quaint, or worse, dangerous. Now, thanks to his actions—his selfish, shortsighted mistake—she was unraveling under the scrutiny of their judgment.

Without the vallaslin, her emotions were laid bare in a way that struck him. The intricate lines that once chained her features had hidden so much, a mask of meaning steeped in equal parts slavery and defiance. Now, with her skin unmarked, her vulnerability was impossible to ignore for him, who had observed her so carefully for almost a year. She glanced around the rotunda, her alarm evident as she realized how quickly the whispers had spread. He could see it in the faint way she pulled her shoulders inward as if bracing herself against the tide.

She was… different without them.

It was an obvious thought, but one that lingered uncomfortably in his mind. He had seen the transformation countless times in freed slaves—how their faces would brighten, their expressions freed from the weight of what the marks had symbolized. They would laugh, cry, emote with an openness they had never dared to show before.

But Nuria was retreating. She looked anything but liberated. She carried her bare skin as though it were a wound yet to heal, her misery radiating through even her best attempts at composure.

And yet, as she stood there, every small motion betraying her unease, Solas couldn’t look away. The woman she had been and the woman she was now were the same, and yet they weren’t. 

She was still beautiful. She—she stole his breath the moment he removed the vallaslin. He had thought he understood her beauty before, with those cruel marks etched into her skin, symbols of a time of oppression and slavery masquerading as pride and faith. But now, without them, he was rediscovering her features. Her face was no longer bound by a lie; it was wholly her own, unshackled and radiant. And in that freedom, he saw her anew.

Her skin was pale, almost otherworldly so. He had always seen that, and the way she cared to anoint herself whenever they approached sunny areas; how easily she burned when she forgot. 

But now her full face was one seamless sea of milky white, interrupted only by the faint blush on her cheeks. She could school her expression, but that was a dead giveaway of how the rumors affected her. 

Her face shape seemed to differ too, it looked rounder, now that the eye wasn’t drawn to its center by the vallaslin, and the slope of her nose was now straight and uninterrupted. She was taller than most other elven women of that time, and to him, she would have easily fit in with the nobility of Ancient Arlathan.

She was herself. But she was new in a way that made his heart clench and desire ignite. And still, he reminded himself, it didn’t matter. Whatever they had, whatever they might have had, was gone. He had made sure of that.

He must be professional and detached. Like nothing ever happened. He clenched his hands, closed carefully behind himself.

A giggle from above captured his attention. They were always discreet, and people usually paired Nuria with humans. In their eyes, someone that had been elevated like she had been had no reason to choose a traveling bald Elvhen apostate over commanders, magisters, nobles and diplomats.

But that day there were many reasons to believe that there was something happening between them, and to resume the racial scrutiny of elves. She uncomfortably placed a strand of hair behind her ear. He needed to distract her, to bring her focus back.

"So, before we begin, do you have any questions about the Dreaming that I can answer?" Solas asked, his voice steady, cool and calculated.

She always had many questions, questions that required more time than they usually had, and would require her to learn more than he allowed. Their discussions had once been interspersed with flirtations and kisses, half delight, half distraction for them both, but now that was not the case. 

Professional, detached, he reminded himself. 

You are rebuilding the world of the elves, using her for your purposes, controlling what she sees of the Dreaming to protect your secrets. And she deserves better than the limited love someone like you can give. 

Someone that has done what you have, destroyed as many lives as you did, doesn’t deserve love.

And yet, looking at her, so lovely, so different without her Vallaslin, made him hesitate. It was unexpected. He made his decision; time to move on.

"First, I'd like to apologize for Dorian’s behavior," she began. "I talked to him and told him that what matters most to me is that all members of the Inquisition, especially the inner circle, get along and can trust each other. We risk our lives, and we have to be able to trust our teammates with no hesitation."

That was, once again, unexpected. He had broken her heart, and yet she was still thinking about preserving his friendships. And she did it with her face still bearing the signs of a hard night, spent crying. 

The sclera of her eyes was still tinged with pink, making her breathtaking green eyes seem even more impossibly bright. She cried because of him, for him. He swallowed and looked away. How was he supposed to shut down his feelings for someone so selfless?

 Professional. Detached. 

He would do it, as he had done in the past. The first day is always the hardest. 

"You have nothing to be sorry about," Solas replied, his tone measured and reassuring. "Your people are very loyal to you. It’s commendable and a sign of good leadership."

She braved a smile "You might change your mind once Sera puts lizards in everything you hold dear." The smile turned strained. "I don’t think I can stop her. But I hope that Dorian will be back to his usual self with you. I don’t want to come between you and the relationships you built here."

Detached. Professional. His expression was unchanged, but it was a challenge.

She was just acting like a good, measured leader. Making sure work relations don't strain, keeping everyone under her command as comfortable as they could be. He shouldn’t have said anything but…

"Thank you," he replied. At least his mask of coldness was still intact.

"Now, to the lesson." He needed to start quickly, before she could make him change his mind again.

INQUISITOR

**She did not want to see chaos around Skyhold. The grand confrontation between Corypheus and the Inquisition was approaching, and she would not see them fail for a personal squabble of hers. 

Varian, Deshanna, the whole clan. All the people that she had met, deserved a chance at life. All the corpses that war created, that her decisions caused, deserved not to have died in vain. 

At least Solas was keeping it together. He also bore signs of a hard night, plum semi circles under his eyes, eyes shot in red. But he couldn't see that, nor would he have cared deeply if he did. 

His calm mask was vaguely strained as he spoke, but he was fine.That made her feel relieved and discarded at once. He sighed, and his eyes passed a shadow of something. She knew what it meant, only because she had spent an inordinate amount of time studying him. 

He felt regretful and conflicted. A mix of emotions she had seen all too often in his eyes, and could still read.

"Thank you," he said regretfully, like by showing gratitude he was opening himself to a slippery slope that would end with him losing control again and kissing her with desperate abandon once more.
Solas began to instruct her on the finer points of barrier manipulation. Despite the awkwardness, she found herself engrossed in the lesson. His knowledge was vast, and his teaching style was effective.

"Remember," he said, demonstrating a technique with a single movement of grace and strength, morphing the barrier he had previously evoked into a rope, "Your barriers are not just for defense. They can be versatile tools for offense and mobility as well."

She followed his instructions, focusing on the magic flowing through her. 

Barriers felt like a warm wind, gently blowing from her fingertips and staff, enveloping her. She felt the taste of the barrier in her teeth, the familiar tingling forming matter in front of her. 

As she practiced, she felt a sense of accomplishment and improvement. It was cathartic, in a way, to take turns in attacking and defending, moving her body, giving it something to do that was meaningful. Solas watched her closely, offering corrections and encouragement. Did he plan this? To let her attack him, even though in a safe and controlled setting?

He might have planned it. Solas was always kind in that quiet, understated way—giving her what she needed without her having to ask, without expecting acknowledgement or thanks. Avoiding it actually, as if caring was a weakness. 

It was the sort of kindness that slipped by unnoticed, yet always left an imprint. As the lesson progressed, they began to move more fluidly, almost as if they were dancing again, though this time with the charged energy of magic crackling between them, the intensity of sparring filling the air with adrenaline. 

The magic flowed seamlessly, nurtured by their connection—a rhythm they had perfected over countless battles, in endless talks about magic and philosophy, in heated touches—as natural as breathing. Even now, even here, they didn't need to talk to understand what the other was about to say and do.

They danced at a distance, using barriers to engage in a playful back-and-forth. She started sweating, heated by the continuous movement and magic. She was carefully measuring her mana, connecting it to her movements, drawing some energy from his barriers, as he taught her.

He captured the energy of an attack with a barrier, spun it and sent it back with a move that was as much grace and strategy as it was fun. She raised herself above his attacks with a barrier, a mischievous smile playing on her lips. The adrenaline coursed through her, emboldening her. 

With a sudden thrust of her left hand, she threw a pointed barrier toward him, and as expected, he responded with one of his own. But before he could solidify his defense, she changed the essence of her barrier and it became sticky. She then pulled her arms and staff back, and in an instant, he was yanked forward, caught off guard.

An inarticulate sound of triumph escaped her, a half-laugh, half-exclamation of victory. Solas couldn’t help but smile in response, a rare, roguish grin tugging at his lips. There was something infectious about her joy, something that made him forget maybe, for just a moment. He mirrored her tactic, quickly manipulating his own barrier, and she let out a surprised yelp as she was pulled toward him.

For a brief, electrifying moment, they were close, and she found herself mirroring his roguish smile, emboldened by the physical exertion. There was a spark in his eyes, a flash of attraction, and he looked as if he were about to say something.

But just as quickly as that spark had appeared, it was gone. His face shut down completely, the warmth in his expression replaced by a cold, distant mask. He straightened back, his movements controlled, deliberate, as if nothing had happened. 

She blinked, the shift in his demeanor catching her off guard. The playfulness seemed to evaporate like it was never there, leaving her standing in front of him, confused. Had she imagined it?

The formal, distant Solas reasserted himself. He stepped back, putting a physical and emotional distance between them.

"Well done, Inquisitor," he said. "You have made significant progress."

"Thank you, Solas," she replied, with an equally measured tone.

He gave her a brief, almost imperceptible nod, and then turned to leave. As he walked away, she couldn't help but ache all over again. Just like yesterday. The wound was still fresh,

"Until next time," he said over his shoulder.

"Until next time," she echoed, watching him go, feeling the loss of her lover.

-

After spending another afternoon planning and discussing the events happening in Kirkwall, it was finally time for dinner. Nuria stretched, feeling her shoulders tense, once again; she yawned as she entered the dining hall. 

The dining hall of Skyhold was alive with the warm glow of candlelight and the soft murmur of conversation. The Inquisitor sat at the head of the long table, surrounded by her closest advisors and friends. Sera and Dorian were on her left, engaged in their usual banter, laughter ringing out occasionally. Solas was further down, his gaze distant as he absently swirled wine in his glass. 

To her right, Blackwall and Josephine discussed the state of the Dales with Leliana and Cullen. Nuria was taking part in the conversation, a frown on her face. Of course, she was in the minority. Solas would make imperceptible movements at times, but he didn’t participate. Was he avoiding speaking with her, even in a group?

As the main course was being served, Vivienne gracefully approached the Inquisitor, her elegant robes trailing behind her, silk and velvet glinting in the light of the fireplaces around the room. She leaned in, her voice a silky whisper that nevertheless carried to everyone at the table.

"Inquisitor, I must commend you on your recent decision," she began, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "It is wise to distance oneself from…questionable alliances."

The Inquisitor's fork paused mid-air. She glanced at Vivienne, then Solas, whose expression remained impassive. Vivienne was also darting a look at Solas, who kept looking elsewhere, not giving her the satisfaction of a reaction.

"Vivienne," the Inquisitor replied carefully, setting her fork down. Her mouth suddenly felt dry. "I don't think this is the time or place to discuss personal matters." She walked away from the chance to do it in a private setting; why do it now? So publicly? What was her angle?

Vivienne's smile didn't waver. "Of course! But I have been thinking of your future, my dear. You are a woman of remarkable talent and influence. It would be a shame not to see you further your political standing. I have connections among the nobility of Orlais—suitable matches that could greatly benefit our cause.” 

The table grew quiet. Blackwall stopped his conversation, Josephine's eyes widened in surprise, and Cullen's brow furrowed in discomfort. Leliana's keen gaze darted between the Inquisitor and Vivienne, assessing the situation. Solas' grip on his wine glass tightened ever so slightly, but was otherwise unmoved.

The Inquisitor's smile froze on her face, and took her glass to give herself a moment to think. Clever of Vivienne, taking care of three things she wanted in one conversation, but she would not follow her lead in this game. She put her glass down calmly, as if she was just having a normal conversation.

The Inquisitor looked at the Imperial Enchanter again, her smile mirrored Vivienne’s. Fake political smiles. She knew how to play this game.

A kind smile, an embarrassed expression, eyelashes fluttering, a humble yet focused tone. "I appreciate your concern, Vivienne, but I have no interest in such arrangements. My focus is on the Inquisition and our mission and I do not have the ambition to set up a political match for myself." Vivienne's smile faded just a touch, her eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly.

Did she seriously expect an affirmative response?

"You must understand, dear, that as the Inquisitor, your choices reflect upon all of us. Aligning with the right families could provide us with invaluable resources." If Vivienne was trying not to sound condescending, she was failing miserably.

Us. Us. The gumption. How did she think this could work? Did Vivienne really know so little about her? Was her hatred for Solas so deep? Did Nuria just overestimate her? Maybe the Imperial Enchanter was out of her depth with this barbaric Dalish Inquisitor and her former apostate lover.

Before the Inquisitor could respond, Sera chimed in, her tone mocking. "Oi, Viv! Why don't you marry off yourself if you're so keen on playing matchmaker? Leave the Inquisitor out of your scheming."

Vivienne's eyes flashed with irritation, but she maintained her composure. "This is a matter of state, not childish games, Sera."

The Inquisitor raised a hand, silencing any further retorts. She did not need chaos. They would not be remembered as a foolish band of idiots that lost the only chance the world had over this .

"Vivienne, this is an inappropriate dinner conversation. We are here to defeat Corypheus, if you wish to advise me on other matters we can always talk in private.” She looked at the Imperial Enchanter indignantly. 

She knew Vivienne was a skilled player of the Game, but suggesting so publicly to marry her off to benefit her own position was something a simpler mind would have done. She wasn't simple, but she was acting with boldness and blatant disregard of the people involved, it couldn't possibly win her any tactical advantage.

Vivienne's lips pressed into a thin line. "As you wish, Inquisitor." Solas remained silent throughout the exchange, his expression unreadable.

As the tension from the previous exchange began to dissipate, Sera couldn't resist poking at Vivienne further, as soon as Nuria was distracted in another conversation. Leaning back in her chair with a grin, she twirled a piece of bread in her hand like it was a throwing knife.

“So, Vivienne,” Sera began, her voice dripping with mock seriousness. “Who’s next on your matchmaking list? Maybe you could find a nice, fancy lord for The Iron Bull. Give him a proper title and everything, eh?”

The Iron Bull chuckled, shaking his head as he took a sip of his drink. “Wouldn’t I love to see that.”

Sera’s grin widened. “Aw, c’mon, Viv. You could turn him into some proper knight with a shiny castle. Maybe get him some posh armor too, so he can finally cover his nips.”

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she responded with her usual grace. “Some of us, dear Sera, understand the importance of legacy and influence. A stable alliance can ensure security and prosperity.”

“Legacy, schmegacy,” Sera retorted, waving her hand dismissively. “You sound like a stuck-up bard. Who cares about all that? We’re here to smack down Corypheus, not play kissy-face with the nobility.”

Dorian leaned in with a mischievous glint in his eye. “Now, Sera, don’t you know? Vivienne is merely looking out for us all. After all, what’s a little marriage proposal here and there if it means we’ll have a few more lavish parties to attend?”

Sera snorted. “Lavish parties? I bet Viv’s got a whole list of people she’d marry off just to get a better seat at the fancy dinners.”

Rainier, who had been watching the exchange with mild amusement, finally spoke up. “There’s value in alliances, but they must be built on mutual respect and shared goals, not just… convenience.”

Sera nodded emphatically. “See? Tommy gets it. Why marry for politics when you can just hit someone with an arrow and call it a day?”

Cullen, who had been quiet since the earlier conversation, was clearly trying to hide a smile. “Sera, not everything can be solved with an arrow.”

“Maybe not, but it’d be a lot simpler if it could,” Sera shot back, grinning.

Vivienne, sensing she was losing the room, decided to take the high road, her tone icy but controlled. “The complexities of leadership are lost on some, I see. But rest assured, my only intention was to secure the future of the Inquisition.”

Sera mimicked Vivienne’s tone, dramatically clasping her hands together. “Oh, of course, Viv! We all know you’ve got nothing but good intentions. And if those happen to get you seated at the fanciest tables, it’s all just a coindinky-inky.”

The room broke into chuckles and light-hearted banter. Vivienne, for her part, remained poised, though her lips were pressed into a thin line as she politely ignored the jabs. The Inquisitor, glad to see the tension easing, allowed herself a small smile, grateful that she didn’t have to moderate a fight, and that this eclectic group had managed to find common ground—even if it was at Vivienne’s expense.

Sera, satisfied with having beaten down Vivienne to silence, leaned back and took a long drink, glancing over at Vivienne with a wink. “All in good fun, Viv. Just don’t go planning any weddings without inviting me, yeah?”

Vivienne’s eyes flicked to Sera, her expression unreadable. “I’ll be sure to keep you in mind, Sera,” she replied smoothly, her tone leaving little doubt that she had no intention of doing so.

Famous last words.

"That's enough. Let's just enjoy dinner, please," Nuria begged exasperatedly from the other side of the table. Sera blew raspberries at Vivienne, as if putting an end to their conversation in the most definite way she could, and then she went over to the Inquisitor, sitting on the table next to her, and fishing food from her plate. 

In a way, Sera was protecting her. In a way, she was sowing chaos. With Sera the two things would be always intrinsically connected.

When the meal finally drew to a close, the Inquisitor stood, addressing her inner circle. "Thank you all for joining me tonight. Good night."

As the group dispersed, the Inquisitor caught Vivienne's attention, putting herself between the woman and the way to the rest of Skyhold. She smiled softly, and warned gently, "Vivienne, please, no more talk of alliances and noble matches. I will not be part of the game, your raise in station, and I will not play games to get back at Solas. He's still our ally and friend. I trust you understand." The Inquisitor’s eyes hardened. This, unlike what happened in the court, was not a game.

Vivienne's gaze softened slightly, and she nodded. "Of course, Inquisitor. Forgive me if I overstepped." However she left indignantly, as if bitten by a dog. Nuria decided not to follow her and distract the rest of the group, before a new mocking session began.

-

SOLAS

The candlelight in the hall flickered as the last of the inner circle dispersed, their laughter and conversation fading into the distance. Vivienne lingered by the doorway, her gaze cool and assessing as she watched the Inquisitor's departure, the last whispered words between them leaving room for reflection, and rage. 

With the Inquisitor gone, she turned her attention to him, as he stood near the hearth, absently swirling the remnants of his wine. The evening's earlier tension had not dissipated, and Vivienne's smile was sharp, carrying an edge that belied her polite demeanor. She needed a win that night, and she wanted that win to be at his expense.

As she glided over to him, her hips moved gracefully with each step. Solas remained by the fire, his posture relaxed yet attentive, expression cool, expecting this confrontation.

"Ah, Solas," Vivienne began, her voice smooth and mocking, crossing her arms artfully. "It seems our dear Inquisitor has yet to appreciate the finer intricacies of the Game."

Solas regarded her with a measured gaze, his expression neutral. "Vivienne," he said, his voice calm and untroubled, "what is it that you wish to discuss?"

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed slightly, a glint of amusement in their depths. "I couldn't help but notice the strained look on your face during dinner. It seems your plan to use your personal connection with the Inquisitor to secure a more favorable position has not yielded the results you might have hoped for."

Solas' eyes flickered with something akin to a smile, though his face remained impassive. The woman really did not understand what she was talking about. Too many years of political scheming left her fumbling where sincere feelings were involved. "Your observations are as astute as ever, Vivienne. Yet, I am sure you will tell me exactly what you expect me to do about it."

She tilted her head, her smile widening just enough to reveal a hint of cruelty. "I merely thought it prudent to remind you of certain realities. You see, now that your alliance with the Inquisitor has proven less than advantageous, you might find yourself in a precarious position."

Solas raised an eyebrow, sincerely curious. "Precarious?"

"Indeed." Vivienne’s tone was silky, but her eyes were cold. She thought she had just trapped him.

"You may be aware that there are whispers of discontent regarding your presence here. Always were. Apostates that are not properly trained by a Circle are dangerous by nature.” Vivienne casually flipped a finger over the fireplace, looking for dust. She rubbed a few speckles between her fingers disapprovingly. The servants would not be left to rest that night. 

“Should the situation continue to sour, it might be quite simple for someone to suggest that the Inquisition would benefit from having you removed. After all, the Templars are always eager for a cause."

Solas kept his cold and calm mask, but a flicker of amusement crossed his features. "And do you believe that threatening me with such matters would have the desired effect? I am not easily swayed by idle threats, Vivienne."

Vivienne’s smile tightened, her voice lowering to a more dangerous whisper. "It is not a threat, but a reminder. It would be a shame to see you go to a mage tower, considering your lack of respect for authority. But not to worry. Tranquils are after all so useful, and live a very…fulfilling existence.” She spoke slowly, snaring him, she believed, in the jaws of a trap impossible to escape. She would be the first one to succeed.

“The Game is a delicate dance, and your current position is precarious. It would be wise to consider your next moves carefully.” She made a dramatic pause, imitating his posture mockingly, hands clasped behind her and back straight. “Maybe consider leaving, while you can."

Solas set down his wine glass, the rich burgundy liquid forgotten as he fixed Vivienne with a look of quiet intensity. The firelight danced in his eyes, giving them an almost eerie glow. He had listened patiently to her thinly veiled threats, her attempts to unsettle him. Now it was his turn. He as well needed a win that night.

"Vivienne," he began, his voice soft but laced with iron, "You’re a skilled player of the Game, that much is certain. But you’ve miscalculated. Badly."

Vivienne arched an eyebrow, her mask of confidence slipping ever so slightly. "Have I, now?" she replied, her tone still dripping with false sweetness, though a hint of uncertainty crept into her eyes.

"Indeed." His presence seemed to fill the room, the warmth of the fire suddenly overshadowed by the coldness in his gaze. “You expected the Inquisitor to entertain your suggestion tonight, perhaps even to spite me publicly.”

Vivienne’s eyes flickered, but she said nothing, her expression carefully neutral.

"But she refused you," Solas continued, a trace of satisfaction in his voice. "And now you’re left wondering why. It seems, Vivienne, that you do not know your target as well as you think. The Inquisitor is not one to be a pawn in anyone’s game, least of all yours." He had no doubts about Nuria’s intelligence.

He watched as Vivienne’s smile faltered, her irritation now barely concealed behind a thin veneer of politeness. Solas pressed on, his voice tinged with a hint of amusement.

"And if you believe she would ever allow me to be taken away by Templars or any other force to see me caged, defeated, corrupted, you are gravely mistaken. It is you who does not understand the dynamics at play here.” He paused to take, slowly and leisurely, a sip of his wine, enjoying the power move that it entailed, capturing someone’s attention so thoroughly that they would wait for him to speak again, and would dare not speak in turn.

He then continued, piercing her with a cold stare. “She is not one of the petty nobles, eager to do anything to avenge their hurt pride.” His voice kept turning more dangerous, low and thrumming with authority “And she is not a puppet to influence, as you think she is. The Inquisitor’s decisions are her own, guided by her convictions more than the counsel of those she trusts.” That she would think herself capable of molding a mind like Nuria to her will, be the shadow behind the Inquisition, was an insulting motion.

“You seek to remove me because you believe you cannot influence her as long as I remain here. You cannot bear the thought that she turns to me—a ‘ lowly apostate ,’ as you might say—for advice and counsel, rather than to you, the Imperial Enchanter ." He mocked that title openly. As most of them, they were just names created to justify the cruel and arrogant in their endless race to impose their will on others.

Vivienne’s eyes narrowed, the mask slipping further to reveal the simmering resentment beneath. Solas pressed on, his voice calm and unwavering.

"It must be humiliating, I imagine. A woman of your stature, your experience, always second place in influence and magical knowledge to someone you consider beneath you. But you are wrong, Vivienne, if you think that your schemes will succeed. You underestimate her; she is far more capable of seeing through your schemes than you give her credit for. Isn’t that what she whispered to you before leaving?"

Vivienne’s composure slipped, her eyes narrowing in a mix of anger and disbelief. Solas could see that his words had struck a nerve, but he remained unfazed, his gaze steady and unyielding.

"Perhaps," she conceded, her tone deceptively mild. "But we both know you’re hiding something, Solas. A secret, something that if brought to light, might just convince the Inquisitor to reconsider her allegiances. I intend to find out what that is."

Solas’s expression remained unchanged, though his eyes glinted with a cold amusement once more. "By all means, try. But be careful, Imperial Enchanter . Secrets have a way of consuming those who seek them."

His words were sharp, aimed directly at the heart of her carefully constructed facade.

"You do know the Inquisitor better than I do," she conceded, her voice smooth as silk. "But let us not pretend, Solas, that you are above playing your own little games. You use her as a pawn in your own schemes just as much as you claim I do. In that regard, we are not so different, you and I. I just did not climb into her bed to achieve them. "

Solas remained silent, but his eyes narrowed slightly, a sign that her words had struck closer to home than he cared to admit.

Vivienne continued, her tone laced with satisfaction. "The difference between us, though, is that I do not hide the truth of myself or my actions. My ambitions are clear, my intentions known. You, however, cloak your schemes in noble ideals, convincing yourself that your cause justifies the means. But what happens, I wonder, when sweet Nuria discovers that the person she trusted most—the one she welcomed into her heart—has been using her from the start? What will she do when she learns that your affections were nothing more than a means to an end?"

The air between them was tense, the weight of her words hanging heavily. Solas’ face remained impassive, but Vivienne could see the subtle shift in his demeanor.

He did not deceive her in his feelings towards her, but he did in every other significant way. Perhaps she could even believe something like that to be true, once the truth came out. That unsettled him.

"You underestimate her strength," he finally replied, his voice measured and cool. "And you overestimate your understanding of the situation."

Vivienne's smile widened, but it was a cold, calculating thing. "Tell yourself whatever you must to sleep at night, Solas. I don’t need to understand your reasons. I only need to be there when your lies unravel. And mark my words—they will unravel. And when that moment comes, Solas, when the Inquisitor learns the true nature of your intentions—well, I do hope you’re prepared for the fallout. Because I assure you, it will be nothing short of catastrophic."

Solas held her gaze, his expression unreadable, but something flickered behind his eyes—a mix of determination and an emotion he rarely allowed himself to feel. Fear? No, not quite. But something close.

The truth in her words gnawed at Solas; Nuria was not someone who would take betrayal lightly. She was forgiving, kind-hearted, but there was a fire in her that could consume everything in its path if stoked the wrong way. He had seen it before—how fiercely she protected those she cared about, how determined she could be when something threatened her people. 

What would she do when she realized he was the greatest threat of all? In his darkest moments, Solas had feared that when the truth came out, it might come to that. A battle. Her against him. He knew she was capable of it—her strength, her morals, her sheer determination. And he…he wasn’t sure if he could bear it. If it came to that, if he had to fight her, kill her, what would become of him? 

He had faced countless foes, outwitted and outmaneuvered powerful enemies, but the thought of losing her—of being the one to snuff out her light—was unbearable.

Vivienne departed with the glint of victory in her eyes “I hope memories will suffice to warm you in the lonely nights ahead of you, apostate.”

As the door closed, Solas allowed himself a small, bitter smile. Vivienne was dangerous, there was no doubt. But she was also predictable, her motives transparent, her methods crude. He would have to be careful, to guard against her schemes. He had to suppress his feelings, as he had done countless other times. 

The first day is always the hardest.

She was not his greatest threat, not by far.

-

INQUISITOR
While they waited for official news, Nuria threw herself into her duties with relentless determination. She had already sealed every rift she could find, but the work of the Inquisitor was never truly finished. Even the most seemingly insignificant tasks—escorting merchants between villages, gathering herbs for local healers—were crucial for those who depended on them. 

Gradually, requisitions were being fulfilled, and the soldiers were being equipped for the battles ahead. Cole guided her to those hurting in mind as much as in body, ensuring that those suffering were tended to, the hurt restored, as much as they could.

"You can't just snuff it out," he commented, while she was carrying potions that were supposed to be sent with Inquisition healers to a nearby village in need.

"I can try," she replied distractedly. She was almost getting used to his insistent attempts to resolve things between her and Solas.

"It's burning…deeper, deeper, leaving a permanent mark," Cole recited. Nuria just sighed. He made it harder than it needed to be, but he was Compassion, and she was hurting. He was just following his nature, like any other Spirit she met in the Dreaming.

"But he doesn't want to. He wants it to soothe, to heal, to hurt just the way you like it. A red sign; a kiss that lingers for days, a warning. Mine . It's a secret, the kind that wants to be discovered, and that just makes it better."

"Cole," protested Nuria, blushing. She almost stumbled.

"He wants it still, you want it too. You just have to say it." Cole was desperate. After all, the poor Spirit had been at it ever since Crestwood.

"He doesn't want that anymore Cole. leave it be," she pleaded.

**"The monster roars inside, always angry, always killing. But he soothes it, quiets it with a smile, appeases it with a touch. The monster sleeps in his paws." 

Nuria’s eyes became blank, and she felt her heart starting a furious race, her fingertips getting colder.

Cole flipped his hand, and delicately moved his fingertips; she felt a warm blanket wrapping around her. It chased away the cold and calmed her racing heart, her panic coated in the soothing feeling of his power. 

"He chose another way before he could meet it, so it's fine. I have arrived," she declared with a grin that didn't reach her eyes.

"Is this not the time and the place?" Cole tilted his head.

"Not anymore," she said triumphantly going through a door, where she was supposed to deposit her freshly-made potions. They never had enough, especially now, preparing for the battles ahead.

She smiled fondly. She fought hard to have humans accept her potions back in Haven. They didn't want them at first, and now soldiers fought to have the potions made by the Herald.

In the midst of this whirlwind of activity, Solas and Nuria were grappling with the new distance between them. Their interactions had become formal and respectful, stripped of the closeness they once shared. 

Solas withdrew into his studies, retreating to isolation, while Nuria found herself increasingly in the company of the rest of the inner circle, engrossed in her duties even more than before, spending every second helping something or someone around the fortress, conspicuously absent from the library and the rotunda, where she used to spend time reading and chatting with either Solas, Dorian or both of them. 

Despite their efforts to maintain a professional distance, old habits and lingering feelings occasionally resurfaced. Nuria would find herself wandering to the rotunda. Solas would occasionally move to sit beside her during meals, only to stop himself at the last moment and choose another seat.

The inner circle noticed the change—the subtle tension between them—and while they all had opinions, no one dared to question what had happened or why it was never spoken of. Nuria shut down any attempt, and no one even tried to question Solas.

Only Sera would openly mock him, until he stuck her shoes to the ground with ice. That shut her up for a while, before the Jenny’s personal lizard warfare began.

Rumors among the soldiers and townsfolk began to swell, growing louder with each passing day. Whispers spread that the Inquisitor was touched by the Maker, chosen as His new Bride to lead His people and bring repentance to the elves—particularly the Dalish—for their supposed barbaric ways.

The idea gained traction as tales of her compassion and heroism spread. Every act of kindness, every life saved, was recounted with reverence and embellished with divine significance.

These rumors troubled Nuria deeply, though she maintained a composed exterior. The thought of being perceived as a divine tool, especially one meant to condemn her own people, gnawed at her conscience. 

She fought against these notions, publicly denying any divine connection and emphasizing that her deeds were the result of collective effort, not personal divinity. Yet, the more she tried to dispel these rumors, the more they seemed to gain momentum. Her humility was perceived as further evidence of her supposed divine status.

She hated every second of it. Josephine and Leliana would put her in situations where people would fawn over her, clerics would discuss her divine status in her face, and on two distinct occasions nobles came to Skyhold with their infants trying to have her perform Andrastian ceremonies she didn’t even know about.

***scene back in Haven beginning, want to put her in chantry-looking clothing to say a speech, Nuria refuses. The first real refusal

She would pretend not to understand, she would act surprised and humble, but firmly holding to her boundaries. She would not perform any kind of speech in the Chantry, never wear anything remotely resembling a Mother's tunic and would make a show of mentioning her Gods and make room for their festivities, just to clarify that she was a Dalish elf.

-

That morning the Inquisitor, hair held in tight braids secured on her head in a crown, walked briskly through Skyhold’s halls toward Josephine’s office. She paused outside the door, composed herself, and knocked lightly before entering.

Cullen was inside, sitting at a table cluttered with documents, his brows furrowed in concentration as Josephine drilled him in diplomatic matters. The Antivan diplomat noticed the Inquisitor first.

"Inquisitor," Josephine greeted, smiling warmly. "Is it time?"

Cullen blinked, shaking off the daze of endless diplomatic lessons. Josephine was preparing him for an eventual Kirkwall mission. "Is it time?" he echoed, hopeful, looking relieved to see her.

"If you’re not done, I can—" the Inquisitor began, glancing apologetically at Josephine.

Josephine waved a hand. "I don’t think I can cram any more into his head today. All yours."

Cullen almost trotted to the Inquisitor's side, eager to escape the mountain of books and endless lists of names he was supposed to learn. Nuria adjusted her training gloves as they walked toward the training grounds, where she insisted on training with the soldiers. 

She wanted them to see her fail, get up, and train harder, showing respect for their craft despite being a mage. 

Showing them that she wasn't a divine being, that she could sweat, fall, and be bruised like all of them.

Showing them that she wasn't Andraste’s Herald, but a woman, a Dalish elf. 

That's why she wore her hair in updos. She wouldn't hide her ears. That’s why it hurt not having her vallaslin anymore, and having to paint them over every few days.

Cullen was quiet, more than usual, and whenever she looked at him, he would either pale or redden, and turn his eyes away. Was he still embarrassed by the time he called her beautiful? She smiled fondly.

She had dismissed his strange behavior of a few days prior as something brought by a misguided sense of justice and protection, a brotherly instinct she couldn’t blame. 

But he kept acting differently than usual. Paying extra attention to her, trying to spend more time together, saying more things that left her puzzled. She appreciated his attempts to make her feel loved and supported, and could see how it cost him, shy as he was.

"I stretched this time," she said, almost teasingly, with a conspiratorial wink, trying to get back to their usual banter.

"Impressive" Cullen replied, chuckling. He didn’t turn away this time, and Nuria smiled. Progress.

They made their way to an open spot in the training grounds, soldiers bowing and watching them with curiosity.

Facing him now, she didn't feel any awkwardness. Soldiers silently made room for them, like they always did, and tried pretending they were not paying attention to what was happening; but whenever the Inquisitor came down to train, suddenly the training grounds turned quieter.

Cullen was back to himself now that he was in his element and surrounded by his direct subordinates. Nuria stood straight, a few steps away from Cullen; she exuded confidence and authority, though the soldiers surrounding her easily towered over her. 

This wasn't just a training, but also a show; as leaders, Nuria and Cullen had to play their part. Her face turned into steel.

"Don’t go easy on me," she warned Cullen seriously. "Our enemies won’t."

He nodded, his expression equally serious.

Cullen stripped down to his tunic and pants while she remained in her modified mage robes. She insisted on training in what she would wear in battle. 

And she would never understand how Circle mages managed to wear long skirts in battle.

CULLEN

Their training began with physical activity. The Inquisitor had made significant progress over the months, though she was still far from the strength or endurance of a recruit warrior or rogue. Cullen watched her with pride as they moved through the exercises. She was panting and sweaty by the time they began sparring, but she showed no signs of backing down.

If there's one thing she didn't lack, it was backbone.

Cullen didn't hold back, and with no warning immediately punched her in the stomach and winded her. 

When she could speak again, she protested. "You didn’t warn me!"

"Our enemies won’t," he reminded her, offering a hand to help her up. She used the leverage to make him fall, using his weight, extending her left leg to throw him over and behind her. A technique he’d taught her, a strategy to use the opponent’s weight as a weapon against them.

"Good," he said from the ground, impressed, as he went again for her. She resisted daringly but ultimately found herself pinned. They continued their sparring, and despite Cullen’s efforts to moderate his strength, the Inquisitor ended up with a few bruises and visible pain.

"I’m sorry, I went a little too hard," he said tenderly, noticing her wince.

"Don’t worry, I can continue," she insisted, though she kept a hand on her side.

"You’re not doing anyone any favors by pushing yourself too hard," he countered, gently leading her to the infirmary. Finding an empty bed, he set up a privacy screen and knelt beside her, realizing just how close they were now that the adrenaline had worn off.

"Can I?" he asked, indicating her injury. She nodded, allowing him to gently touch the bruised area. She swore and grabbed at his tunic.

"Come on, we should take a look," he urged. She began unbuttoning her robes from her navel,  to give him a better view of the bruise, which had blossomed into a deep shade of purple on her side. Cullen’s face flushed pink, but he focused on her injury.

He wouldn't complain about the show of skin but it stung that she would never act so casually around Solas.

"Bad, huh?" she sighed, wincing. "It means I will have a hard time healing it. Solas will have to help." She looked resigned, and Cullen froze. She hadn’t mentioned Solas much lately, and their training sessions were no longer private. Her coolness towards him was noticeable, yet she still sought his help.

"I’m sure we have potions," Cullen offered gently, going to a cabinet.

"No, Cullen, wait!" She raised her hand but it was too late. He saw the lyrium potions and his mouth went dry. She closed the cabinet.

"I’ll be okay," she reassured him, nudging him away. "I’m sorry I let you come here. I didn’t—" she tightened her grip for a moment, brows knitting together, stopping for a moment. "I’ll handle this. Dismissed."

Usually he would let her take the lead; after Crestwood, he found himself being braver around her.

"No," Cullen said firmly, lifting her gently and placing her on the bed. She let him, with only half-muffled protests. "You don’t have anything to be sorry for," he insisted, taking her hand. 

She breathed unevenly; clearly, being carried had been painful. She didn’t resist his touch but focused on her spell, murmuring as a faint light grew from her hand and the bruise began to recede.

As she worked, Cullen’s thoughts raced. She didn’t depend on him; she didn’t understand his feelings. How could she be so blind? What could he do to make her see he was pursuing her without offending her? He sighed, resting his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the stretcher. Should he wait? Would she ever accept anyone but Solas?

When she finished the spell, the bruising had improved. She moved, testing her range of motion with a sharp intake of breath but began buttoning her robes quickly.

"Good enough," she announced.

"You could use a potion," he reiterated.

"And I’ll look for it myself," she replied, her tone lighter. She pushed him out, her demeanor brightening. "Don’t you have troops to train?"

"But—"

"I’ll tell Josephine to test you on all the Viscounts of Kirkwall," she threatened with a smile and a playful tongue poke.

"You’re devious," he accused, turning to her. Her hands landed on his chest as she still tried to move him, her expression mock-affronted.

"Me? I’m the Herald of Andraste, holier than thou. This is nonsense, Commander!" She laughed, pushing him lightly. She was so casual in touching him, so unaffected, while he—without thinking, he took one of her hands from his chest and kissed the back. She turned pink, pulling her hand back.

"Cullen!" She was not just pretending to be affronted now, reclaiming the kissed hand and putting it close to her chest, protected by the other. "You’ll give half the camp the wrong idea."

He didn’t care about the onlookers and asked, "Wrong?" raising an eyebrow. She pushed him lightly again, saying "This is not funny" and turned to leave, frowning.

He needed a plan, a proper confession, or she’d never understand his feelings.

INQUISITOR

The Inquisitor was making her way back to Skyhold’s main hall when Cole suddenly appeared beside her. She smiled, unmoved by his sudden appearances; he was like a brother to her. Besides, sometimes she felt something when he was about to appear.

“Cole,” she greeted warmly, embracing him tightly. Though he responded awkwardly, her happiness at seeing him was undiminished. She stepped back slightly, though she kept a hand on his shoulder. “It’s been days. I thought you decided to go back to the Fade. Remember to tell me if you do, all right?” She kissed his cheek before stepping back fully.

“I will,” Cole replied in his usual whispery voice.

“Were you helping people?”

“I was, because you and Solas don’t allow me to help.” Cole’s frustration brought a bright chuckle from her, but felt her heart clench.

“I’m sorry, but we both need to deal with this in our own ways.”

“He just wants everyone to sing the same as before, make everything bright again, and right. He made it wrong.”

She nodded, understanding, albeit partially Cole’s insight. “That’s a noble pursuit, but it seems like he can’t have that and me.”

“But he can.”

“He doesn’t want to. Cole, how about we help someone in Skyhold? Who needs our help?”

“Solas.”

“Other than him.”

“You,” he said, pointing at her side.

“I’ll get a potion. If it doesn’t get better, I’ll ask Solas to see it later.”

“Good,” he nodded approvingly. “He hurts less when he sees your skin, and you when he touches it.” She blushed violently but chose not to comment on that.

He had been convinced not to comment anything about her and Solas when they were still together, but Cole had refused to stay silent after Crestwood. At least, she was the only one that heard those words.

“Who else?” she asked, hoping to change the subject.

“The sun rises by virtue of her smile, but she's too far, I can’t see the dawn. It's so dark. Master Curt.”

“Well, that’s a good start. Let’s go. Where is he?”

Cole led her to Master Curt. Though officially a horse merchant, he was actually one of Leliana’s spies, known for his love of dogs despite being Orlesian. He was a perfect spy—unremarkable in appearance, with brown hair and eyes, tidy but not overly so; he could imitate any accent, and Nuria was quite sure that Curt wasn’t actually his name. When they found him, he had his head in his hands, a letter clutched in one of them.

“Inquisitor,” he said, standing and bowing when he saw her. “Can I be of service?”

“The letter is the hurting. It’s a no,” Cole whispered behind Curt.

The Inquisitor smiled gently, trained not to look at Cole during those moments, offering Curt her full attention. “Good day, Master Curt. Thank you for delivering fresh horses to the Inquisition. We’re grateful for your business.” She gestured toward the letter. “Good news, I hope?”

“Yes,” Curt replied cheerfully, holding the letter higher but in a way that casually obscured its contents from her. “Got news of a great deal. I was just wrapping my head around another long journey. You found me in an embarrassing state; I’m sorry.” He rolled the letter back. 

Cole whispered again, “You can tell her. She can help, and no one is watching.”

Used to Cole's influence on people, she wasn't surprised when Curt decided it was safe enough to confide. “I’m sorry, Inquisitor. I have three free days after this mission to spend with my wife, but the journey is too expensive for us.”

The Inquisitor pondered for a moment. “Leliana will need you soon, so I can’t grant you more days of leave, but I can pay for her journey.”

“You would?” he asked, breaking character, hopeful.

“Of course.” She took her sigil from one small pocket, a ring she never wore, but only used when needed. She held it carefully, cast a miniscule flame to darken the sigil with smoke, and stamped it on the letter, which unsurprisingly wasn’t about horses. “Go tell Leliana. If she says anything but yes, tell her to come to me.”

“I…thank you, Inquisitor,” Curt said, leaving hurriedly. Cole smiled at her.

“He doesn’t hurt anymore! She can move closer. I’ll get to hear her voice when she dreams.”

Nuria always got a shiver of excitement whenever she could help someone like that. Felt redemption a bit closer. She turned to her friend. “Thank you, Cole. I’m happy you told me.”

Cole nodded. Nuria touched his arms delicately with a hand. “I’m sure there’s someone else you can help. I need to go. I’ll see you later? I have a potion to find,” she said, intending to avoid an examination by Solas.

“Don’t. He loves tou—”

“I get it, I’m leaving,” she announced before he could finish. She laughed, thinking about what her people would think of this Spirit boy. Deshanna would be intrigued but careful, Syrin would just sit on his lap asking for everyone's feelings and…a messenger came with a missive. They needed a new supplier for herbs. Apparently the old one had been greedy and raised the prices astronomically, since the Inquisition grew larger.

After her conversation with Cole, she resolved to do anything to avoid seeing Solas later if the potions didn’t work. She was a First after all, and before meeting him, she thought of herself as a competent healer. She would manage. She hoped to understand more about his secrets, but every time Cole spoke of his intentions or she looked at his murals, she felt a mix of understanding and confusion. For now, she had other matters to attend to.

Like Sera, currently shouting to get her attention. The Jenny’s voice cut through her thoughts and through people like they never were there.

"Inky! Hey, INKY!" Sera waved a hand, running towards her from the tavern. For once, it didn't seem like she was about to pester her about Solas.

"I got Jenny business to tell you," Sera said, her expression turning serious. "It’s bad in Kirkwall, like real bad. Little people disappearing, nobles punching down hard. I want in on the mission."

Lowering her voice, the Inquisitor took Sera by the arm as if they were going for a walk or having a private talk. "You can’t, Sera. If we all go, we’ll be found out. It’s why I drew my tattoos back; none will expect me without tattoos. I’ll even dye my hair. I need you and the others to stay here just in case it’s all a ruse or Corypheus attacks. Is there a Jenny in Kirkwall that can aid us?"

Sera nodded. "I’ll tell them. There will be more of us there. Red lyrium or not, we need to punch up. What color?"

The Inquisitor smiled mischievously. She needed to distract Sera thoroughly, before she just decided to come. "Have I ever told you that before the conclave, my hair was black?"

"No, it wasn’t," Sera replied, slipping from her arm, incredulous.

The Inquisitor chuckled and nodded. "Whatever happened that gave me the Anchor made my hair go white." She shrugged, pulling a loose strand of hair. "I got used to it." She let the strand go and started to undo her updo. After training with Cullen, it didn't look great either way. "I don’t know if I’ll find a way to make a black dye that I can keep stocked easily. Maybe I’ll use something lighter, so I won’t have to dye it every week. We’ll see."

"I would have liked you better with black hair," declared Sera. "I figured they thought, ‘All right, look at her, she’s pretty, and weird enough to be plucked out from the Maker’s side,’ but turns out you were normal. It’s just the stupid magic that made you weird."

"Aww, thank you, Sera," the Inquisitor warmed up at the compliment.

"Anytime, weirdy bits," Sera said, with a genuine smile.

Speaking of, she forgot to ask a crucial question.“Who won the challenge?” She talked slowly, reluctantly.

“Zore did! Bullshit!” Sera crossed her arms, now that her plan worked against her. Nuria would rather not ask when the naked run was going to take place, and Sera headed back to the tavern. 

In the distance, the Inquisitor saw Cassandra and Bull talking quietly and intensely by the training dummies. They both had their own duties to prepare for what lay ahead, and Bull was nervous about leaving Dorian alone. Unfortunately, The Iron Bull was the most eye-catching of the entire Inquisition; if he came, they’d be found out immediately. 

"The potions," she reminded herself. She had to get them quickly before she made Cole’s wish come true.

-

Nuria headed to her quarters, determined to focus on her healing abilities. She’d relied on Solas too much, or perhaps too eagerly, as Cole pointed out. It was time for her to advance her healing techniques, especially with their upcoming mission in Kirkwall. 

She grabbed some books from the library earlier, deliberately avoiding Solas's gaze as she passed through the rotunda. She didn't want to linger there, near him, where he could see her and she could see him. Once in her room, she dived into her studies, immersing herself in the mix of knowledge and endless warnings about demons from Chantry scholars.

But conventional Chantry wisdom wasn’t enough for her. She knew better, having explored more of the Dreaming than any of those scholars could ever dream of. Frustration and curiosity built within her. She decided to explore the Dreaming herself to gather more information directly from its source. She’d never attempted such a journey without Solas before, but the thought of taking charge of her own learning excited her.

With renewed determination, she stood.

Her quarters seemed a bit less foreign, a little less the tomb of what once she shared with Solas. His things, the few they dared put in that room, were gone, and she had started sleeping at night without need for draughts.

She took a deep breath in the middle of the room, and felt magic spark in her body. From the base of her spine, a familiar thrill spread through her body, waking up her aura, mana awakening to set up wards. When she felt the energy fill her to the brim, she opened her eyes, and started walking slowly, enjoying the moment.

She let the magic spread from her fingertips, reaching out to the walls, the windows and doors, to close herself in a protective and safe cocoon. The air started changing, charged with magical energy, and she could almost hear the sweet tweeting of sparks of Spirits, attracted by her magic.

She smiled, and with one last twirl, the wards were set. She hesitated before letting go of magic, to naively—stupidly, suggested her brain—leave a back room open for Solas.

It was a practiced habit by now, but the whole room shimmered, and it never failed to amaze her. She relaxed on the bed, putting a blanket on herself.

Her mission was clear: find a Spirit of Wisdom willing to teach her advanced healing techniques. Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and let herself drift to sleep.

-

The Fade around Nuria was a captivating reflection of Skyhold, though with an otherworldly twist that revealed something new each time. Curiosity happily fluttered alongside her. Today, it was a blend of dog, bird, and ermine with delicate butterfly wings and playful antennae. Its vibrant hues of orange, red, and green danced in the shifting, dim light, mirroring her own eagerness with boundless energy. Mystery seemed excited too; in its own way, she realized, she felt it more intensely than usual, but still couldn't identify its nature.

She didn't give it the nickname Mystery lightly after all.

Nuria focused her will, giving purpose to her direction. The process was challenging; Curiosity’s constant barrage of questions and her own limited experience made it a slow endeavor. But she was incredibly stubborn.

Eventually, she felt a faint, promising pull—a whisper of direction that led her deeper into the Fade’s ever-shifting realms.

“I’ve found a way,” Nuria announced, her eyes shining with triumph. Her companion looked on with curiosity as she raised a hand, willing the Fade to reshape itself according to the guidance she sensed. The swirling colors shifted and solidified, revealing a doorway where none existed before. Beyond it, a cave emerged, the scent of fresh water mingling with the echo of dripping droplets filling the air.

For a moment, she hesitated. It was an inviting sight, but exploring without Solas would be a first. She had learned much, but…she shook her head. Curiosity beamed and sang.

“Time for adventure, it is time to play!” and continuing its song, cheerfully stepped through the portal. From the other side, Nuria heard it say “Oh hi!” excitedly. It was her turn.

Stepping through the portal, Nuria entered a grand subterranean cavern, Mystery in tow. The space was dominated by a serene lake, its surface reflecting the soft, ethereal glow from the cave’s walls. The water was clear but dark, an infinite pool of tranquility where she could almost see images she had no name for. At the center of the lake stood a majestic tree Spirit, ancient and graceful. Its trunk was gnarled, with roots extending into the water, while its branches formed a canopy of verdant leaves that whispered softly in the stillness. 

The lake was an enigmatic spectacle. Leaves drifted across the surface, transforming into glowing letters and symbols that sank into the dark depths, disappearing into an impenetrable void. The interplay of light and shadow created a mesmerizing dance of knowledge and mystery.

The Verdant Luminary’s voice filled the cavern, a harmonious whisper that resonated with the essence of the space. “

“ Welcome, mortal, to my abode,

is it Wisdom that you sought?

A call, I heard for healing insight,

A call that is just, from a mind that is bright.”

It intoned words both delicate and profound, the sound of leaves and bark composing a melody of ancient wisdom.

“Thank you for allowing me to find you,” Nuria replied, offering a graceful curtsy. “I’m Nuria, a Mage and the Inquisitor. I seek knowledge to enhance my healing techniques. Would you be willing to teach me?”

The tree spirit paused, its presence heavy with contemplation and power. “Inquisitor?” it echoed, surprise threading through its voice, through an echo of branches moving and shaking. 

“ Last that word I heard has been almost lost in time

Inquisitor is a mortal that fights, condemned to strife

Seeking the power to maim and to kill

Not the call of healing, nor reflection within.

In you resides both, the nurturer and the murderer.

I wonder if it is sincere, or you're just a perjurer?”

Nuria stared at the tree. Its bark was gnarled and she could trace a face within it. She looked at that, or one of the many faces she could see, wondering if it was just her imagination and limits, leading her to search for a face.

The spirit saw more than she would expect, but that's her, being naive, till her last dying breath

“Before becoming the Inquisitor, I was the First of Clan Lavellan. Healing, nurturing and protecting have always been my roles. Becoming the Inquisitor has changed much, but not this. I want to inspire hope and bring improvement. There is no true progress when only violence guides us.”

The Verdant Luminary seemed to consider her words, its branches rustling gently as if in thought. “ Very well, ” it said at last. 

“I will teach you, but there is a condition to match” 

The Spirit’s voice turned serious. 

“Each time you come, you have to show

That it is peace that you choose, this is the contract to escrow

One deed for each visit, no less no more

Or nevermore you shall find my door”

“So for each lesson, you want to see a deed of peace over violence. And if I fail to provide such a deed, I will not find you anymore.” 

The Spirit hummed in approval.

Nuria hesitated, reflecting on the request. Would she be capable of giving that Spirit what it wanted from her? She could think of occasions where she chose peace; would they be enough? Surely the Spirit didn't expect her to welcome every attacking Venatori and Darkspawn with a hug.

Additionally, despite her rejection of the Chantry’s restrictive beliefs, even Dalish agreed on Spirits being dangerous. She felt old fears and doubts flicker to life. She got used to Curiosity, Mystery, and many others she had met and befriended or learned to avoid, but this was different.

She looked at the Spirit, expanding her senses, willing her magic to become a blanket shrouding the cave, sensing, assessing. But there was no malicious intent from the Spirit. Then, it was decided.

“I agree,” she said firmly.

“She has so many questions,” announced Curiosity, plunging into the lake effortlessly.

The Verdant Luminary erupted in an irritated rustle of leaves, and Curiosity was unceremoniously raised and thrown by her.

“Curiosity, boundaries.” Nuria reminded the Spirit gently, raising it straight on its…duck legs. It must have turned while swimming in the Verdant Luminary’s lake. “No diving in other Spirits’ body parts without their explicit permission.”

Curiosity nodded meaningfully, and a parchment appeared out of thin air. It was a—long, very, very long—list of boundaries she had tried to enforce on the Spirit. She had never seen it appear before. Nuria glanced at it, and it was appropriately titled "Boundaries - important!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” She stopped counting the exclamation points after the fifth. The first item made her blush, and she turned her head. She'd rather not read the others.

The Verdant Luminary was waiting patiently, and when he finally had Nuria's attention on it again, responded to her earlier acceptance.

“Raise,” it ordered, and Nuria did . The Wisdom Spirit sent a delicate, purple leaf drifting toward her. Nuria opened her hands to receive it. 

“ Knowledge you seek, and that you shall have

Healing pain is bleak, a journey so rare

Not many seek the knowledge the way that you have.

Fear not, you speak, and I'm here to help

Of what you know I'll have a peek, this leaf on your brow is but the first step.”

The Spirit was testing her trust in him. She could feel it waiting with interest and patience. Spirits have all the time in the world after all.

Nuria followed the instruction, placing the leaf gently against her skin. As she did, she felt the Verdant Luminary scan her head, her knowledge and spirit being tested. 

This was the first step in her journey of advanced healing. From that night on, she would return to the cave, where the Verdant Luminary would guide her training. 

And each time, she sensed the presence of Mystery observing, intrigued by her quest for knowledge and peace.

Why was it particularly interested in that?

Chapter Text

VARRIC
It was late evening. After a relatively quiet night with Sera, Dorian, and Blackwall playing Wicked Grace, everyone retired. As they played by the hearth, Varric couldn’t help but think about Solas. The elf had been isolating himself more than usual, buried in his books and avoiding Nuria to a ridiculous amount, especially when Cullen was nearby. Some of the inner circle had turned against him, and generally, the mysterious apostate that barely talks to people wasn’t popular to begin with. He needed a friend, and Varric wanted to be that friend.

Varric entered the rotunda, only to find it empty. The smell of paint, however, revealed that Solas had been working on something. He let his nose guide him to one of the big foreboding paintings in the beginning stages. In the lower section, painted with careful black strokes, was Nuria, eyes closed, evoking some magic or other. The part most carefully painted was her face: her focused expression, the small details that made her come to life. It was an unfinished sketch, but only a man in love could paint someone like that.

As the door of the rotunda opened, Solas walked in with more paint. His gaze met Varric’s, then shifted to the unfinished portrait. He wore his mask of coldness perfectly, pretending he was just painting a bird maybe. When he spoke, his tone was amicable but distant.

“Master Tethras,” Solas said, setting the paint down. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Varric replied casually, looking over to Solas. “Thought I’d check on you. You’ve been pretty scarce lately.”

Solas sighed and looked at his painting. “There is much to be done,” he said, preparing absently more black paint, setting it near a big brush. His intentions were clear, but Varric couldn’t just let the opportunity go.

"You know, Chuckles, people usually paint what they love," Varric said, breaking the silence.

Solas sighed, continuing with the preparation. "I find it...helps to organize my thoughts."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "Your thoughts, huh? And those thoughts don't include talking to the lady herself?"

Solas glanced at the sketch, then at Varric, but says nothing

Varric walked closer, examining the details of the painting. "So, what happened? You two seemed...well, it seemed like you had something special."

Solas didn’t reply, keeping on preparing the black paint. Varric replied, “I’ll take it as a yes.” The dwarf moved near him and said, “I won’t pretend to know everything, but you look at her like someone ripped your heart out of your chest, and she looks at you the same way.” He sighed, rubbing a hand on his forehead. “So I take it it wasn’t a lack of feelings from either part. That makes me think it was some external factor and…I know something about that. I usually don’t talk about this but…do you remember Bianca?”

That caught Solas’ attention. He stopped, raised his head to meet Varric’s gaze, and then arched an eyebrow. “The crossbow or the woman who built it?”

“Well…both. Bianca and I…we have something special, but everything came in our way, until I broke it off. A war was about to start because of us; I didn’t want to put her in harm’s way. I thought she would forget me at some point and find happiness somewhere else. But it didn’t work. We kept finding our way back to each other, despite trying everything to stay apart.”

Solas was attentive but said nothing, and Varric didn’t think he would say anything, so he continued his monologue. "I gathered that you broke it off because you have secrets. Secrets can tear people apart, Chuckles. I get that you have your reasons, but Nuria? She's tough. She could handle more than you think."

Solas looked away, his expression pained. A moment of honesty so rare he can scarcely believe it. He must really love her. "It's not about her strength. It's about the consequences.”

Varric sighed, leaning against a table. "Well, for what it's worth, she's been hurting. You both are."

Solas remained silent, his eyes transfixed on the sketch.

"Maybe you’re different. Maybe you can just say goodbye and see her start over, but that” —he pointed at the painting— “that tells another story.” He sighed. “You know Cullen is trying to court her, right?”

Solas stiffened. "I'm aware," he replied, his voice cold.

"Look, Chuckles, I'm not here to twist the knife. I'm just saying he’s a good man, and she’s a good woman. It could happen. Curly has been in love with her for a long time, and he won’t let this go. Just don’t take too long. Life has a funny way of slipping through your fingers when you least expect it. If you really want to let her go and let them be together, it’s your choice, but make it quick, for both of your sakes. Put your heart at rest or go for it.”

Solas closed his eyes, a pained expression crossing his face. “I wish it were that simple.”

“Nothing worth having ever is,” Varric said with a small smile. “But if you need someone to talk to, or just a distraction, you know where to find me.”

Solas nodded slowly, opening his eyes to look at Varric.

"Master Tethras. Hod did things end up with you and Bianca?"

Varric chuckles sadly "We keep dancing the dance, finding each other when we can, feeling the ache the rest of time. If I acted differently, maybe I wouldn't be the not-so-secret sidepiece. Try not to make my mistake"

Solas looks back at the sketch.“Thank you...Varric. Your friendship is appreciated, more than you know.”

Varric gave him a warm smile. “Anytime, Chuckles. Anytime.”

Without adding another word, the dwarf started for his quarters. When he last looked at Sola s, he was just staring at the unfinished portrait, like it could give him an answer, or atonement. The day after the portrait is painted over, now just black among a sea of black.

SOLAS

It had been difficult—more difficult than he anticipated. It wasn’t the first time he had pushed away a lover for the sake of a greater cause. In the past, he had always managed to be cool and detached, to say his goodbyes, vent his frustration, and move on quickly. But this time, it was different. Thirteen days had passed, and still, he found himself missing her with a gnawing ache that refused to fade.

She had been hurt; that much was clear. He could see it in her eyes, in the way her shoulders sagged ever so slightly, in the way she avoided his gaze. But she hadn’t begged him to change his mind. She hadn’t sought revenge or lashed out in anger. Instead, she nursed her broken heart quietly, trying to shield him from the whispers and sideways glances of those around them. She carried on with a quiet dignity that both comforted and tormented him. Her restraint, her quiet grace, might have seemed suspicious if it was anyone else, a cover for a greater revenge. But he knew her too well to mistake it for pretense. She had always been good in the truest sense of the word - a quality that only deepened the ache in his chest.

He would see her around Skyhold, either helping people that will never thank them with Cole, in conversation with Dorian or the other members of the inner circle, or even with Cullen. That made his stomach turn but also gave him a dark satisfaction: she either looked confused or friendly with him, likely holding onto the belief that he just saw her as a friend.

He mostly saw her in the library, her attention fully absorbed in a book, after she had been admonished for bringing volumes back in her quarters. He couldn’t help but watch her, as discreetly as he could manage. He found himself drawn to her every movement, his eyes lingering on the titles she selected, trying to piece together her thoughts and the path her mind was taking. Before, she would have shared those thoughts with him, inviting him into her world, seeking his opinion with that bright mind and keen curiosity that had always captivated him. Now, he was left to guess, to read the subtle shifts in her expression, to notice if she took notes, or to gather snippets of conversation from Dorian, Fiona, or Vivienne.

Lately, he had noticed her deepening focus on healing magic. It stung more than he was willing to admit. Healing and warding had always been his role, his way of caring for her during and after battles. She would come to him with her injuries, and it had become more than just routine; it was an excuse to spend time together, to touch her skin, to feel her close. But since their parting, she hadn’t brought him along on her missions, nor had she sought him out for healing. He saw the subtle signs of strain—the way she would wince, press a hand to a sore muscle, or favor one side when she moved—but she said nothing, and neither did he. She was trying to make do without him, to find her own way.

He remembered the breathless sounds she made when he channeled his healing magic on his lips in camp, healing her and teasing her at the same time, asking her to be quiet, telling her the others would hear, while doing his best to elicit sounds from her. The way he’d press his lips against her skin, taking his time, especially when he didn’t need to, exploring every sensitive spot with a gentle touch that was as much about desire as it was about healing. The teasing, the soft bites and caresses, how they would leave her flushed, her eyes dark with want. It was a unique kind of satisfaction, unraveling her with such ease, knowing he could invoke such a response from her. Not Cullen, not any other man. Him. Each sigh, each shiver was etched in his memory.

That she took healing in her own hands should have been a relief, and with anyone else, it would have been. But the fact that she seemed able to move on, to navigate her path without him with such quiet determination, hurt him more deeply than he could have anticipated. And yet, despite her resolve, he still caught her glancing at him when she thought he wasn’t watching, just as he found himself unable to stop watching her.

It was a delicate dance, this strange new distance between them, filled with unspoken words and lingering gazes. He knew he should be thankful that she was strong enough to stand on her own, that she was healing in her way. But instead, he felt the weight of his choice more acutely than ever, as if every day without her was a wound that refused to close. Why was he watching her? Why was he counting the days since he pushed her away? He had always been able to move on, to focus on the cause, to bury his emotions beneath layers of resolve until they dissipated. But with her, it was different. Thoughts of her filled his mind at the most inconvenient times, and when he saw her—truly saw her—he felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs.

She couldn't be different from the others, he told himself. She wasn't Elvhen, not really. She was part of that race of shadow people, the rare exception in a world he had come to understand better, but despised all the same. So why couldn't he make his peace with the situation and move on? That terrified him. She was dangerous.

It's not like he has a choice. He must take down the Veil, his abomination, to restore the world of the elves. He must do it before the Darkspawn wakes up the two remaining “Old Gods” and the true apocalypse begins. When the world becomes a blighted wasteland, what would he say? I couldn't, because I loved her?

Now, he found himself needing to leave, because a sudden pang of guilt, longing and desire had struck him as she sat reading. She wasn’t doing anything special. She wasn’t trying to be seductive to change his mind. She was just being herself, and that was what made it unbearable.

He retired to his chambers. He needed to check on his agents anyway. He kept his head down, but felt her gaze following him, then a sigh. He mirrored that sigh.

THE PAST
The glow of the Fade shifted around them as Solas and Nuria stood in a secluded garden of ephemeral beauty. Vines of light wove through spectral trees, their leaves shimmering like delicate glass. The air was a subtle blend of warmth and coolness, a perfect balance that held the promise of the magic they were about to explore.

Solas had recently started teaching her about the Fade, delving into her dreams to help her master her skills as a Dreamer. Today, he opted to teach her what he thought to be a basic technique: changing shape in the Fade. However, he quickly realized how challenging it was for her. As someone who was originally a spirit, some things came naturally to him, whereas Nuria, born in the Waking and in an age of decadence of magic, found it difficult to master. Yet, she was making a valiant effort, determined and focused despite the challenge being beyond her current capabilities. She was supported by a spirit of Curiosity, borne of her and allowed by Solas to be near her. Other spirits were also born of her deeds, but interacting with them was complex and could be daunting for someone wary of the Fade, so he suppressed their presence, as he did with spirits of Love that were attracted by their feelings.

Curiosity instead was a lighthearted spirit, small and ever-changing, taking the shape of various animals in the most unbelievable colors. It often changed only a part of itself, an ever-changing chimera challenging Nuria to follow its whims, trying in its own way to assist her. The only change she had been able to enact and maintain was small antlers, while her vallaslin flared with every attempt.

Solas was still not used to seeing so many of those shadow elves wearing slave markings with pride, but when it came to Nuria, it piqued his curiosity. That, and the fact that she wore Mythal’s vallaslin. Out of all the Evanuris, why her? He hadn't noticed many wearing them.

"Why Mythal?" he asked suddenly.

"Uh?"

"Your vallaslin. Why choose Mythal?"

"Oh," she said, touching her face. "As a First and an older sister, I've always been protecting and taking care of my community," she started with a practiced response. But as she spoke, the Fade shifted to reflect her thoughts: they were in her clan's camp. The atmosphere was peaceful, with children running, adults weaving, sculpting, skinning game, or otherwise busy with daily activities. Nuria was healing a hunter injured in the hunt in the background.

"Did I do that?" she asked, eyes wide.

Solas nodded. "When you think intensely about something, you can shape the Fade around you to reflect that. But I can teach you how to rein this in. You... rarely want someone to be aware of your every thought."

She swallowed and nodded, her mind evidently drifting to something she didn’t want him to know. As that thought began to take shape, the environment around them started changing again. A tinge of panic flashed across her face. Solas swiftly shifted the Fade back to the garden where they had originally been, moving closer to her. He brushed her arm with his fingers, a gesture meant to reassure and ground her.

"I'll take care of it for now," he said. She looked at him, and for a moment, his mind went blank. He needed to touch her more somehow, a compulsion he couldn't fully suppress but had to enact in some way. He placed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, a gesture that felt both intimate and innocuous. All the same, she blushed, and their blooming connection seeped into the Fade, the ripple of her emotions making him acutely aware of how she felt about him.

Since their first encounter in the Fade, he'd had to rein in his desire to kiss her again. Ever since their lips first met, he'd struggled with thoughts of that moment, wishing he never let it happen. Wishing he kissed her for longer. He had tried to stay away as much as the situation allowed, but every time he rationalized a reason he had to be back to her side. Like this training. She didn’t need to be a skilled Dreamer to defeat Coypheus, she found a way to protect herself and it was enough. But she deserved better. So here he is, with a perfect excuse to spend time with her in the Fade, in addition to the time they spent together in the waking world.

He took a moment too long to withdraw his hand, his fingers lingering, gently brushing her jaw with the back of his fingers. Her blushing was delectable; he could see her usually sharp mind losing form and sense with the innocuous gesture. Was he not the same, though? Each touch, each shared glance, made his resolve waver.

Her blush deepened, her composure momentarily faltering, and Solas felt the familiar ache of longing.

"Tell me the truth" he said, sitting in front of her

“All right" she murmured, her voice barely audible, her eyelashes fluttering as she refocused, her tone more sincere. "Since our parents passed, I've always taken care of my little brother, then the other children, and then when I grew older, the rest of the clan. I’ve always liked children, and I’d like to be a mother someday." She looked away.

Her gaze was distant, her words revealing a depth of emotion that Solas had rarely seen, and he felt a pang of longing. For a fleeting moment, amidst the dream-like haze of the Fade, he dared to imagine a simple life with her—a life filled with domestic warmth and quiet contentment. The vision was fleeting but vivid, a glimpse of domesticity that seemed both achingly beautiful and impossibly out of reach. He was Fen'Harel, and he was about to turn her whole world into ashes. The thought was a cold, stark reality that smothered his fleeting fantasies. Nuria found her voice again, her expression as sweet and cheerful as always, but her gaze distant, the Fade rippling around her with the energy of dark emotion. He recognized fear and rage but dared not say or ask. She was adept at hiding her true emotions and motives in the Waking, he noted, but the Fade was different. He wondered how many times her smiles hid her motives

"She’s also the one enacting justice," she said, and Solas mentally added, vengeance. The fire he felt burning under the surface of her spirit sometimes, under layers of sweetness and calm, in the Fade was clear as a lonely cloud in an otherwise sunny day. She snapped out of it. "I think this world needs justice, and I want to help make it more fair, in any way I can. It’s a reminder of my principles. Of resilience. As Dalish, our very existence is always challenged. To carry what is left of our culture and live outside the influence of humans is an act of rebellion."

She paused, her thoughts turning inward. "I know you don’t appreciate the Dalish."

He shook his head. "It’s not the Dalish themselves, but rather what they have become—a fragmented echo of what they once were. I wish they could hold onto their true essence, rather than the distorted version that has emerged." He had been too honest, and she was smart. If he gave her too many clues, she could figure out his identity. So, when her brow furrowed in doubt or question, like it was doing now, he resorted to flirting and touching to distract her. It’s just a strategy, he kept telling himself.

“On the other hand,” Solas said, his voice lowering to a seductive murmur, leaning closer “you might yet persuade me to deepen my understanding of Dalish culture. I wouldn’t mind getting lost with you in the process.”

Solas’s flirtation struck its mark. Nuria’s cheeks flushed a delightful shade of pink, drawing a predatory smile to his face. The ease with which he could make her blush felt almost too familiar, a trick from his youthful days. Yet the pang in his heart told a different story, but he ignored it. Just a strategy.

Nuria’s lips curved into a playful, teasing smile. She leaned in slightly, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Oh? And here I thought you’d prefer to stay on the safe side.”

She came closer, tilting her head, delicately, to whisper into his ear. Her voice was a soft, teasing whisper, the warmth of her breath brushing against him. “Careful, Solas,” she continued, her tone suggestive and playful. “I might just enjoy leading you astray.”

She was close enough now that he could feel the heat of her lips, her proximity a heady mix of danger and allure. The game they were playing was intoxicatingly dangerous. Solas leaned in, their faces inches apart, the warmth of her breath mingling with his. Just as he was about to respond, the playful spirit of curiosity, ever present and ever innocent, made its presence known in the most unexpected way.

“I wonder what he looks like with no clothes on,” the spirit chimed in, its voice a mix of childish innocence and blatant curiosity.

The words echoed through the Fade, clearly translating Nuria’s thoughts. Her face flushed a deep crimson, and her eyes widened in mortification. It was as if the spirit’s comment had shattered the bubble of flirtation, exposing her most private thoughts with a startling clarity.

Nuria stumbled back, taking three full steps away from him, her composure broken by the spirit’s unfiltered commentary. “I—I didn’t mean—” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper as she was desperately trying to keep her composure and dignity. The Fade around them shimmered and warped, responding to her sudden embarrassment. Curiosity insisted “But you were wondering intensely about that, it's a good question. He can show you!”

In a rush of disorientation, Nuria’s presence began to fade from the dream-like realm. The emotion was so overwhelming she was waking up. The garden dissolved into the familiar, shifting mists of the Fade as she woke, retreating from the scene.

Solas watched with a mixture of amusement and affection. Unable to contain his laughter, he shook his head, a broad grin spreading across his face. The sound of his laughter rang out, mingling with the fading echoes of the spirit’s comment.

“Ah, Nuria,” he chuckled to himself, shaking his head in disbelief. “You never fail to surprise me.”

As the Fade settled back into its ethereal calm, Solas’s gaze remained distant, his mind lost in the turbulent swirl of thoughts and memories. The playful spirit of curiosity flitted around him, its vibrant colors a stark contrast to the somber mood that had settled over him. Despite the awkwardness of the earlier moment with Nuria, Solas couldn’t help but appreciate the strange, endearing nature of the spirit’s interference. He would later need to teach her how to better control her emotions in the Fade, to prevent her feelings from leaking out so freely. In Ancient Arlathan, children were taught that very early, for good reason it seems.

-

The memory faded, leaving Solas feeling pensive and sorrowful. After his conversation with Varric, he had explored many such memories with Nuria—moments of sweetness, passion, connection, and laughter. At first, he had denied his feelings, convincing himself they were just playing a game. But when he finally admitted to himself that he loved her, he believed he could let go at any moment, as he had done so many times before with other women, when his mission called. After a few days of reflection, he understood why he couldn't forget her. He let her go, like he did in the past, but for completely different reasons. He almost told her the truth, and when he couldn’t, for a moment he decided to give it all up. He pushed her away to save himself from these feelings of love. To keep her from influencing him further. Now, he was torn by his mission and the consequences it carried, something he couldn’t afford. Why was he looking at those memories? Selfish old fool.

The fading glow of the Fade dimmed slightly, and from the surrounding mist, an ancient elf emerged. Corym, one of his agents, appeared with an air of solemn authority. His presence helped him to return to reality and what was truly important: his plans. His people counted on him with their lives and their hopes nothing should interfere.

Corym’s form was both imposing, a figure wrapped in the timeless grace of the ancient elven people. His eyes held a sharp, calculating intelligence. He bowed slightly to Solas, acknowledging his superior.

“Fen’Harel,” Corym greeted, his voice resonating with the weight of ages. “You summoned me.”

Solas nodded, his expression cold and calculating “Corym, I need reports about Kirkwall.”

Corym’s eyes narrowed slightly “We have found a few scraps of information. Rumors. Beings of various sorts that might have claimed a Foci to use it against Corypheus. The only sure thing is that Corypheus is there and he's looking for another Foci”

Solas took a deep breath, gathering his thoughts before he spoke. “You need to find out more. There is nothing more important than this. Our mission depends on your ability to get the information before it's too late. How goes the search for the Dreamer essence?”

Corym’s expression was thoughtful “The essence of a dreamer is difficult to obtain. They are rare in this era, but our information states the Inquisitor is such a person, we could use her.”

Solas’s expression grew stern as he replied Corym’s suggestion. “No,” he said firmly. “We will not use her. We must find another way.”

Corym’s eyes held a flicker of surprise, but he nodded, acknowledging the weight of Solas’s decision. “As you wish, Fen'Harel. If the Inquisitor is not to be involved, we will seek out another Dreamer. However, we will need to be cautious. Such individuals are not easily found, and their essence is closely guarded.”

Solas considered for a moment, his mind racing through the possibilities, and find a justification for his response. “She possesses my Anchor, so we can't use her, but there are legends of our people, seers who wandered the Fade long before the time of the modern races. Their essence might still linger in forgotten corners of the realm, or perhaps in the memories of the Fade itself. But right now, this is not a priority. Just use forces that you can spare, focus on Corypheus and the Foci.”

Corym’s eyes gleamed with determination. “I will. Is there anything else you require from me?”

Solas’s voice stayed cold, masking the inner conflict he was struggling to suppress. “Only your vigilance. Our enemies grow stronger, and we must be prepared for any complications that may arise. And… ensure that our plans remain hidden. The Inquisition’s vigilance could thwart our efforts if they discover too much.”

Corym’s expression became even more grave. “Understood. I will move with the utmost secrecy. The fate of our plans rests upon these tasks, and I will not fail.”

Solas closed his eyes, letting the sorrow of his decisions wash over him. The Fade, with its ever-shifting landscape, seemed to reflect his inner turmoil—a realm caught between two realities, like he was. He took a deep breath, trying to push aside the personal anguish that clouded his thoughts, and refocused on the mission ahead. The future of his people, of the world, depended on his success, and despite the cost, he had to see it through to the end.

INQUISITOR

The Inquisitor approached Cullen's office equipped with an air of empathy. The news she had to deliver was not easy, and she knew it would be particularly difficult for him. She paused outside the door, took a deep breath, and then knocked lightly before entering.

Cullen stood behind his desk, his usual stack of reports and maps spread out before him. He looked up as she entered, his expression softening when he saw her.

"Nuria" he greeted her warmly, though there was a hint of wariness in his eyes. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She closed the door behind her, her heart heavy with the news she bore. "Cullen, we received more news. The situation in Kirkwall might require our full attention. I came here to make sure you are sure about your decision to participate in this mission and go back to Kirkwall. You might have to speak to some of your old friends that didn’t have the life they deserved since your departure. You might have to fight them. Are you sure you want to come?”

Cullen's face immediately tensed, the color draining slightly as memories of his traumatic past in Kirkwall surfaced. He gripped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white. He didn’t say anything, but a shadow crossed his features.

She took a step closer, her heart aching for him. "I know what that place means to you, Cullen. I wouldn't ask if it weren't…” she trails off “Necessary” he finishes the sentence for her. She’s startled for a second, then continues “Preferable. But you're one of the people I trust most, and your experience there could be invaluable."

He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. When he opened them again, he forced a reassuring smile, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "I'll be okay," he said, his voice firm. "If the Inquisition needs me, then I'll go. We can't afford to ignore these threats."

The Inquisitor reached out, placing a gentle hand on his arm. "Cullen, you're not going alone. We’ll be there, and if it’s too much, I can think of another strategy."

He hesitantly covered her hand with his own, drawing strength from her touch. "Thank you. Your support means more than you know."

She smiled at him, relieved.

Cullen hesitated for a moment, then reached into a drawer in his desk and pulled out a beautifully bound book. "I have something for you," he said, offering it to her with a shy, hopeful smile. "I know how much you yearn to learn more about ancient elf lore. Our scouts found this, and it looks old."

The Inquisitor took the book, her eyes lighting up with genuine delight. "Cullen, this is wonderful. Thank you." She ran her fingers over the intricate cover, on the title in Ancient Elvhen, feeling a warm glow spread through her at his thoughtful gift.

Cullen watched her reaction, a flicker of hope in his chest. "I'm glad you like it," he said softly. "I just... I wanted to give you something meaningful."

She looked up at him, her eyes meeting his. Cullen’s face was expressing emotion. She blinked twice, not sure what to make of that expression, then decided to just thank him for this precious token of friendship. “Thank you so much!” she repeated enthusiastically. It would take her ages to translate it all, but she could always ask Solas. She winces at the thought. No, not him, not anymore. She sighed.

Cullen saw the change in her eyes and took a step back, masking his disappointment with a practiced smile. "I'll start preparing for Kirkwall," he said, his tone returning to its usual professional cadence. "We'll make sure everything is ready for the mission."

She nodded, grateful for his dedication to the Inquisition. "Thank you, Cullen. We’re lucky to have you"

As she left his office, book in hand, Cullen watched her go, his heart aching with both love and uncertainty. He wasn't sure where he stood with her, especially with the shadow of Solas still lingering. Varric was right, he needed to be more direct, she would never understand otherwise.

Nuria left Cullen’s office, clutching a book she hadn’t really been paying attention to. Her mind was far from the strategies and reports she had been discussing moments ago. Every step she took toward the rotunda felt heavier, burdened by memories she couldn’t shake. Ever since the breakup with Solas, maintaining her composure had been a constant struggle. She was the Inquisitor, after all—responsible for the safety of countless lives. She couldn't afford to be a love-struck girl, wallowing in heartbreak. The first night after he left her, when everyone had seen her swollen face, had been humiliating enough. Begging him to reconsider, to explain his reasons—she couldn’t even allow herself to entertain the thought. She had better things to focus on than the tormenting mystery of why he had ended things so suddenly. And besides, she had more pride than that

The puzzle of Solas had gnawed at her since then. His words, his actions—so often out of place, laden with a knowledge too deep, too vast, even for a Dreamer. She had tried to piece it all together, to find the answers that might give her closure, but thinking about it only made the hurt sharper, the wound deeper.

As she reached the rotunda, Nuria hesitated for a moment before opening the door. Solas was there, sitting at his desk, seemingly engrossed in whatever text lay before him. In the past, he would have been more obvious about waiting for her, his demeanor shifting between jealousy and relief whenever she returned from speaking with Cullen. Now, when he finally looked up, the coldness in his eyes struck her like a blow. It was a mask, she knew that. But still, it stung.

She forced herself to mirror that coldness with her own mask of amiability. If there was any tension in his jaw, any hesitation in the way he lifted his gaze to meet hers, she tried not to notice. Suspecting that he was still jealous, that he might still care—it would only drive her mad, deepening the ache in her chest.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted her, his voice as neutral as his expression, though the sound of her title felt like a knife twisting in her heart.

“Solas,” she responded, her tone equally composed, a small, empty smile curving her lips. Despite herself, she saw a faint sparkle in his eyes at her words, a glimmer that made her stomach tighten. Quickly, she looked away, closing the door behind her as she steeled herself to walk through the rotunda, heading for the War Room, where Leliana and Josephine would be waiting.

As she walked across the rotunda, she could feel Solas’s eyes on her. She knew if she turned to look at him, she would see something fragile and tender in his gaze—something that would make her heart race, her cheeks flush, and all her carefully maintained composure crumble. But she didn’t look back. She couldn’t afford to. Not when she had so much more to do, so many more responsibilities to bear.

So she kept walking, her back straight, her steps measured, even as the tension in her body coiled tighter with every moment. She had a role to play, an image to maintain, and she would not allow herself to be undone by a single look. Not when the stakes were so high, and certainly not when the man watching her had already proven how easily he could shatter her.

Nuria didn’t allow herself to think—not until she closed the door of the rotunda behind her. She had been trying so hard to keep it all in, to act like the leader her people needed, setting an example of strength and fairness. But the truth was far simpler: her heart ached with every beat, each pulse an agony of unanswered questions, unfulfilled desires, and emotions she could no longer afford to feel. She wanted to be alone and vent her feelings, to confront him, turn back and tell him, “I know you still love me, you’re not fooling anyone,” and kiss him until the world faded away. But she couldn’t. She wouldn’t compromise her dignity, her values, not even for him. She had tried to respect his wishes, to honor the distance he had placed between them, but it felt impossible to breathe sometimes. The weight of it all was suffocating. She had stopped confiding in Dorian, stopped talking about it or showing how much it hurt. Instead, she focused on steering people in Solas’ direction again, trying to restore some semblance of normalcy to their interactions. But she was still just a person, and without a way to vent, she knew she was a ticking time bomb. Yet duty bound her to keep going, to pretend nothing had happened, to smile like the nice, nonthreatening leader she liked to pose as, even as the pressure built inside her.

She allowed herself one small indulgence: watching him from a distance while she read in the library. After all, she had been told she couldn’t hog half the books to read in her room, so the library became her haven. Sometimes she sat where they couldn’t see each other, but sometimes the temptation was too much. But even that small pleasure was a double-edged sword. It made it harder for her feelings to fade, especially when she caught him looking at her with that quiet desperation in his eyes—or worse, with love and desire.

Their kisses had been like diving into deep water. She would draw him closer, feeling the world around her soften, grow heavier and lighter all at once. It was as if she could drown in him and float in his arms simultaneously, the soft hum of water surrounding them like water and silencing her thoughts and fears, leaving only them. As if she could only breathe with his lips on hers, each kiss tinged with the desperation of a final farewell, as if he was always preparing to let go. She should have known.

She shook herself from the memory, refusing to let it consume her. If she dwelled on it, she knew she would lose her resolve, crumble into the broken pieces she was trying so hard to hold together. There would be time to unravel after Corypheus was defeated. Until then, she had to stay focused. The world wasn’t going to save itself.

Chapter Text

CULLEN
Cullen stood in the dimly lit War Room, summoned abruptly from the tavern. The remnants of the night’s drinks still lingered, but as he took in the serious faces of Leliana, Josephine, and the Inquisitor, he felt the alcohol's haze dissipate quickly. The room, bathed in flickering candlelight, felt ominous, the shadows on the stone walls stretching long and dark.

“What’s going on?” he asked, his voice thick with a mix of lingering intoxication and growing concern.

Nuria, dressed in an emerald green blouse and silk pants that Josephine insisted she wear around Skyhold, summoned a few wisps of light with a flick of her hand. The soft, glowing orbs drifted above the War Table, casting a warm light that pushed back the encroaching darkness.

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, acknowledging Nuria’s magic. Nuria nodded, her face illuminated by the gentle light, and gestured toward Leliana to take the lead.

Leliana stepped forward, her presence commanding as she directed the lights to focus on the War Map. The additional illumination brought the details into sharp relief, highlighting the region that was now at the center of their concern.

“We’ve received a new report,” Leliana began, her voice steady but laced with tension. “Meredith’s statue has disappeared.”

Cullen’s hand instinctively tightened on the edge of the War Table, his knuckles turning white. The news hit him like a punch to the gut, his breath catching in his throat. Meredith. Just hearing her name dredged up a torrent of memories—battles, bloodshed, the madness that consumed her and nearly destroyed Kirkwall. The thought of her returning, even in some twisted form, sent a shiver down his spine.

For a moment, the room seemed to close in on him. The voices of Leliana and Josephine faded into the background, drowned out by the chaotic storm of thoughts in his mind. Each one more terrifying than the last. The effects of the alcohol still clinging to him made everything feel distorted and surreal, amplifying his dread.

A firm hand on his shoulder snapped him back to the present. He turned sharply, his instincts ready for action, but the sight of the Inquisitor’s calm, reassuring smile stopped him in his tracks. Despite the turmoil brewing inside him, her presence was grounding.

“I have a plan,” Nuria said, her voice clear and composed. She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze before letting go, the warmth of her touch cutting through the cold fear that had gripped him.

She turned back to the others, her expression serious as she outlined their course of action. “This situation is bigger than we initially thought. We need to tackle it from multiple angles.”

“First,” she continued, “we need someone inside High Town. There are people in power involved, and we need to understand what they’re planning, why and what's their angle.”

She paused, her eyes narrowing with determination. “Second, the magic. If they’re trying to manipulate the Fade, we need to find out where it’s happening and what they’re trying to achieve. We need to be ready for anything.”

She took a deep breath before moving on. “Third, the disappearing elves. We need to find out who’s behind it, how they’re operating, and most importantly, why. Then we need to shut it down.”

As the Inquisitor laid out her plan, a stray lock of hair slipped into her eyes. Without missing a beat, she conjured a hairpin seemingly out of thin air—at least that’s how it looked to Cullen whenever a woman did that—her movements smooth and precise as she secured the strand back in place. Josephine and Leliana exchanged knowing glances, nodding in agreement. Josephine’s pen was already scratching across parchment, her mind clearly working on logistics and contacts.

“Finally,” Nuria huffed, lowering her arms with a sigh. “We need to handle this discreetly. If the Venatori catch wind of what we’re doing, they could escalate, scatter, or relocate before we get close. Everyone clear so far?”

The room filled with nods of agreement. Leliana, ever prompt, was the first to speak. “My agents—”

“No,” Nuria cut in, raising a hand to stop her. “This is too important. We need to be directly involved and make sure we’re sending our very best.”

Josephine, always the voice of caution, looked concerned. “But what about Skyhold and our other responsibilities?”

Nuria’s eyes gleamed with determination. “I have a plan,” she said, the hint of a confident smile playing on her lips. That smile never failed.

“We can’t send everyone, especially a big group together” she continued, “Or we’ll draw too much attention and leave Skyhold vulnerable. But the Inquisition is known for handling various missions. We can use that to our advantage.”

“Varric and Cullen will be key players,” she outlined. “Varric’s connections and reputation allows him access everywhere, while Cullen can pose as an envoy investigating the statue’s disappearance. It gives him a legitimate reason to be there and diverts attention from the rest of us.” She takes a breath "Varric will leave first, Josephine, we'll have to prepare for this one. We'll pretend he wants to leave the Inquisition because he was kidnapped to be here, and is dissatisfied. If possible, we'll have to pretend to fight for this and give the impression to someone powerful in Kirkwall that Varric owes them. It could give him access to the people involved in the situation."

She pinned her hands on her hips. “Dorian will play the part of a Tevinter merchant, supposedly in Hightown looking for slaves and unsavory magical artifacts. He’ll be close enough to help Cullen if needed but distant enough to avoid suspicion.”

“Solas,” she continued, “will pose as a Fade expert, a runaway from the Circle. He’s our best chance at understanding what’s happening with the Fade. He’ll be stationed in the Alienage but will start by investigating the outskirts of Kirkwall.”

“And I’ll be there too,” she added, her tone leaving no room for debate. “My missing Vallaslin work to our advantage. With word of their absence not yet widespread, no one will expect me to be the one without them. I’ll be in the Alienage as well, posing as another Circle runaway.”

Nuria took a seat in a high-backed chair, crossing her legs with a determined air. “We can’t deploy the entire inner circle, but we’ll use every resource we have. We’ll consult Sera for any intel she might have on local Jennys and get Scout Harding to gather information while we prepare. Until the news of the statue’s disappearance becomes public, we need to act like everything is normal and keep our movements subtle. We’ll stay close to Skyhold, no mission taking us more than a day away.”

She softened slightly, her gaze sweeping over her advisors. “There are still details to iron out, but this is the core of my plan. Any questions or concerns?”

The group leaned in over the map, their voices mingling as they hashed out the finer points of the operation. Josephine and Leliana tossed out names and logistical challenges, their minds already racing ahead. Cullen, still processing, remained silent, his focus entirely somewhere else.

Josephine was the first to leave, her arms full of notes, already planning her next steps. Leliana followed soon after, tasked with writing letters on the Inquisitor’s behalf to maintain appearances, her mind busy with thoughts of mobilizing their network of agents.

As dawn’s early light began to wash over the room in soft gold and pink, a quiet settled between the Inquisitor and Cullen. The weight of their meeting hung in the air, visible in the tension etched on Nuria’s face. She stood, stretching to release some of the strain, her calmness almost tangible. Cullen noticed the shift in her demeanor, her presence a soothing contrast to the chaos in his mind.

“Are you okay, Cullen?” Nuria’s voice was gentle, cutting through his thoughts. “I know I’ve put you in a tough spot with this plan. You don’t have to go through with it if you’re not up for it.”

“It’s a solid plan,” Cullen replied, his tone clipped but sincere. His head pounded, the throbbing a constant reminder of the lyrium withdrawal gnawing at him. His usually steady hands trembled ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” she said, her eyes narrowing as she picked up on his unease. “But if you’re not ready to go back—”

“I am,” Cullen interrupted, the words coming out harsher than he intended. His eyes, though, told a different story—fatigue and pain clouded his usually sharp gaze.

Nuria’s eyes softened as she saw through his facade. “Cullen,” she began, her concern plain as she placed a hand on his. “I can make something to help you sleep, ease the symptoms. You don’t have to decide right now. It’s a dangerous mission, and I need you at your best. If you’re not up for it, we’ll find another way.”

“No,” Cullen said, reaching out, but his voice wavered, and he stumbled slightly. Nuria was quick to support him, her strength surprising him as she kept him steady.

“Easy,” she murmured, her voice gentle but firm. “I can read you like an open book, Commander.”

Cullen’s internal struggle was written all over his face. The exhaustion, the lyrium withdrawal, and the overwhelming emotions he’d been bottling up finally broke through. He pulled her closer, his hand slipping under her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. Her eyes widened, a mix of confusion and concern flickering in them.

“Cullen, what’s—”

He cut her off, his voice shaking with the weight of his feelings. “Nuria, I—”

The words caught in his throat, the intensity of his emotions too overwhelming to put into words. He wanted to tell her everything—how much she meant to him, how his feelings had deepened into something far more than he’d ever expected. But the words were stuck, the depth of his unspoken love too heavy to express.

“I just… need to be sure you’re safe,” he finally managed, his voice raw with emotion. “You mean more to me than you realize. I just want… I want to protect you.”

Nuria’s eyes softened at his words, but there was a hint of something else—something uncertain. She had always seen Cullen as a protector, someone she trusted deeply. But she hadn’t considered that his feelings for her might go beyond that of a close friend or brother.

Cullen let go of her gently, frustration and resignation written across his face. He stepped back, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, barely audible. “I shouldn’t have—”

Before she could respond, Cullen turned and left the room, leaving behind a heavy silence. Nuria stood frozen, staring at the door he’d just walked through, her mind racing. The intensity of his gaze, his words—they left her bewildered, her heart pounding with questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to face.

As the dawn light crept further into the room, Nuria’s thoughts swirled in a storm of confusion and curiosity. She felt like she’d just glimpsed something profound, yet utterly incomprehensible. What had driven Cullen to act like that? And what did it mean for them? As the first light of day illuminated the map and plans scattered across the table, Nuria found herself caught between a desire to understand and a fear of what that understanding might reveal.

SOLAS
As the first light of dawn broke, birds began to stir, their songs gradually growing louder as the sky transitioned into soft shades of blue and orange. The crisp morning air carried the melody of their chirping as Solas made his way to a secluded corner of Skyhold, a hidden balcony accessible only by a solitary ladder. It was a tranquil retreat, untouched by the usual bustle of the fortress.

Nuria sat on the balcony, legs crossed, facing the distant mountains, seemingly unfazed by the cold. Her expression was contemplative, as if lost in deep thought. Delicate shapes of light and magic floated before her—a technique he had once taught her. The gentle glow of her magic lit up her features, giving her an almost otherworldly aura against the backdrop of the rising sun. He couldn’t help but remember the first time he’d shown her how to do that.

THE PAST
Despite his best efforts to keep his distance, Solas found himself drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. He knew the danger of getting too close, of letting his feelings deepen, but every attempt to pull away only seemed to bring him closer. This morning was no different. He had led her to this hidden spot, promising her a gift. She had immediately understood the significance of the place—a balcony that led nowhere, connected to no room, and nestled in such a way that only a carefully placed ladder could reach it.

“No one could ever find me here,” she said, delight in her voice as she looked around, spinning with joy. The natural wall on one side and the protective overhang offered privacy, while the expansive view of the landscape stretched out before them. She approached the railing, arms wide, savoring the freedom.

“Is this place the gift?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with appreciation.

Solas nodded, a chuckle escaping him. “It is. A space just for you, a retreat from the world.”

She let out a little leap of joy, twirling again before her expression turned more thoughtful. “Maybe it’s not wise,” she mused, her hands fidgeting—a sign of discomfort she only showed when they were alone. “People need to find me in case of an emergency.”

“Even the Inquisitor needs a break now and then,” Solas said softly, stepping closer. “If there’s an emergency, it will make itself known, I assure you.”

Nuria sighed, glancing back at the ladder, then at him, unease in her eyes despite her brave facade. Solas noticed the fatigue etched in her features. She had been carrying immense responsibilities and tragedies with a grace that both impressed and worried him. She needed this moment of peace.

Determined to shift her focus, Solas stepped closer, his presence deliberately drawing her attention. She was well aware of the effect she had on him, sometimes coming close enough for him to catch the scent of her perfume—resins and subtle flowers—a detail that often made him lose his train of thought.

His plan to distract her was becoming a distraction for himself. She was so close that he could easily close the gap and kiss her. The desire to do so was almost overwhelming. It had been too long since he kissed her in the Fade. And as much as the realm of wonder was his natural home, the waking world offered bodily satisfactions that the Fade couldn't. Smell, taste, touch, they were different, and he wanted to feel her, taste her like a dessert, slowly, leisurely. He let his gaze trace the line of her jaw and neck, taking in the soft curve of her lips. The temptation was intense, but he managed to take a half step back, trying to regain his composure, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Have I ever shown you a spell I learned in the Fade, used in ancient Arlathan to tell children stories?”

The mention of a story and knowledge instantly captures her attention. Her eyes light up with curiosity, her cheeks still tinged with pink, but now fully engaged. Her fascination with the arcane and the ancient is one of her most charming traits, a thirst for knowledge that he finds irresistible.

Solas gestures for her to sit beside him on the balcony. He kneels and gently takes her hand, guiding her down to sit with him. The morning light bathes them both, and he turns his gaze towards the distant mountains, concentrating for a moment. With a graceful movement, he invokes the spell. Lights swirl and dance, conjuring shapes and figures that seem to come alive in the soft morning glow.

The shapes form into various animals, each one more intricate than the last, capturing her complete attention.

“It’s beautiful,” Nuria whispers, her eyes wide with wonder.

Solas smiles, enjoying her delight. “Would you like to hear a story that goes along with it?”

Nuria nods eagerly, her curiosity palpable. She moves closer to him, her hand still holding his, her presence radiating a blend of warmth and anticipation. Solas feels a pang of longing but forces himself to focus on the spell.

He turns back to the scene, about to narrate one of the classic stories from his time, but…no. There's something else he wishes to tell her, if not directly, in story. He begins to narrate.

The lights shifted, forming a wolf and the moon. The wolf, rendered in soft, ethereal light, settled into a cavern while the moon illuminated the landscape, casting a serene glow over a field of grass and trees. The scene was rendered in shades of white and gray, imbued with subtle magic that brought the story to life.

“This is the tale of how the wolf fell in love with the moon,” Solas began, his voice carrying a soothing, melodic quality. As he spoke, Nuria gently rested her head on his shoulder. His heart skipped a beat at the intimacy of the gesture, but he kept his focus on the story, his free arm gently wrapping around her waist.

“Once upon a time, in a world very different from ours, a lone wolf awoke from a long slumber. He emerged from his cave to find that everything around him had changed. His pack was gone, and the land was unfamiliar.”

The lights animated the scene, showing the wolf venturing into the forest, his solitude marked by the shadows that danced around him.

“He wandered through the woods, searching for a new pack, but everywhere he went, he was met with hostility. Other wolves snarled and drove him away, leaving him even more isolated and desolate.”

Nuria’s grip on his hand tightened, and he squeezed back, feeling comforted by their connection.

“His loneliness turned to frustration until one day, he stumbled upon a clearing in the forest. It was here that he first saw the moon.”

The moonlight in the scene cast a gentle glow over the clearing, and the wolf’s eyes widened in awe as he gazed up at it.

“His loneliness turned to frustration until one day, he stumbled upon a clearing in the forest. It was here that he first saw the moon.”

The moonlight in the scene casts a gentle glow over the clearing, and the wolf’s eyes widen in awe as he gazes up at the moon.

“The moon was unlike anything he had ever seen. She illuminated the night with a gentle radiance, her light nurturing all: the delicate flowers that opened for her and those that turned away from her light, guiding the creatures of the night and allowing the creatures of the day a serene sleep, and bringing solace to those in need. Even the wolves who had rejected him found comfort in her glow. The moon’s kindness touched the wolf’s heart, and he fell deeply in love with her.”

Solas’s voice softens with emotion, his hand holding hers interlacing their fingers as he continues.

“The wolf, moved by the moon’s beauty and benevolence, decided to follow her. He ran through the forest, guided by her light, never wanting to be without it. He howled his love to the night sky, letting everyone know of his feelings.”

The scene displays the wolf running beneath the moon, his howls echoing across the landscape, a symbol of his unwavering love and determination.
-

The memory drifts away, leaving Solas feeling a profound mix of nostalgia and melancholy. The hidden balcony—their private sanctuary—has transformed over time. Blankets and pillows are strewn about haphazardly, a testament to many lazy, contented afternoons spent together. Books are stacked in neat piles, protected from the elements, their spines a silent record of their late-night discussions. Dalish trinkets and carved wooden figures, including a small altar with representations of the Nine Gods, including Fen'Harel, dot the space. The scent of incense lingers in the air, mingling with the crisp wind. His own drawings—some completed, others still in progress— with his drawing supplies, add a little of himself to the alcove.
This place has become more than just a corner of Skyhold; it is their private retreat, where they shed the weight of their roles and responsibilities. Here, they are simply Solas and Nuria, free to indulge in their love for each other, their hobbies, and their shared dreams. It’s a place of quiet reflection and deep connection.

He hadn't expected to find her here so early in the morning. He had come to relive some of their memories in the Fade, but instead, he finds her in the midst of creating a spell, attempting to replicate the story he had once told her, days before he first told her that he loved her. The spell flickers and falters, failing to hold its shape as she looks up and notices him. Her surprise is palpable, and she quickly lowers her hand, the light show dissipating into nothingness.

“I apologize, Inquisitor. I didn’t mean to intrude,” he says, avoiding her gaze and beginning to climb down the ladder.

Before Solas could fully descend the ladder, Nuria’s voice cut through the stillness, firm and commanding, masking the turmoil she felt inside. “Solas, wait. Join me for a moment. We need to go over some important Inquisition matters. Something significant has come up.”

Her tone held a trace of frustration, an uncharacteristic slip that revealed just how much this intrusion into their private haven was bothering her. “We might as well handle it here,” she added, a hint of resignation in her voice, acknowledging that their sanctuary had been overtaken by urgent work.

Solas paused, his reluctance evident as he lingered at the top of the ladder. Seeing her in that space that meant so much for them in light of their separation. He almost didn't want to. He almost wanted to call her down, and keep that space untainted. But it was his decision to make distance between them, so the least he could was listening when it came to Inquisition matters. He sighed and climbed back up, settling just inside the balcony, keeping as much distance as he could. Bathed in the warm light of the sun she was breathtaking

Nuria watched him, waiting for him to close the gap. When he didn’t move, she shifted as far away from him as the space allowed, sensing his need for some distance. “Could you come a bit closer? It makes me uncomfortable seeing you so close to the edge,” she asked softly.

He complied, stepping closer to her. Nuria hesitated for a moment, then Solas decided to break the silence.

Why is Fen’Harel’s statue at the center of your altar? I thought Dalish elves usually didn’t place him there.”

Her eyes brightened with excitement as she began to explain. “After the Well of Sorrows, I couldn’t get Abelas’s words about Fen’Harel out of my head. He defended Fen'Harel, and his statues were there as a friend, an ally, so maybe he wasn’t as evil as we thought. What if we’ve misunderstood him? I started diving into the Fade, hunting for memories related to him. It’s been tough—fragmented and elusive—but some memories showed me he had followers who saw him as a symbol of freedom from 'False Gods'. Maybe our view of him was wrong. Besides, I always thought that someone who could be close to the Creators can’t be entirely bad. So I decided to place his statue at the center of my altar, to honor his complex legacy and to apologize for us Dalish blaming him for...everything.”

“You didn’t mention you were investigating him,” Solas remarks, a trace of surprise in his voice.

Nuria’s gaze shifted to the altar, her expression thoughtful. “After everything I learned...” she said, a touch of wistfulness in her voice. The discovery about Mythal, and what was said about Falon’din, had clearly shaken her. She hadn’t confided in him about her crisis of faith, and kept her doubts tightly under wraps. He wasn't allowed access to her inner thoughts anymore, couldn't help her with her doubts and fears. She lost herself in her own thoughts, and he would have given so much to just read behind her pupils, to have a record of her mind in the last 10 minutes.

Solas was about to respond when Nuria’s demeanor shifted to a more urgent tone. “Something’s brewing in Kirkwall,” she said, her voice serious. “Venatori are gathering there, elves are disappearing, and there have been strange disturbances in the Fade around the city. Reports indicate that Corypheus might be trying to enter the Fade physically again or searching for a new power source. Just yesterday, we got word that Meredith’s statue vanished, along with an idol.”

His eyes widen in genuine shock, his composure slipping as the severity of the situation sinks in. She misinterprets his reaction as a response of horror from an apostate faced with a grim revelations, not Fen’harel having miscalculated, again.

“I have a plan,” she continues reassurringly, her Inquisitorial mask firmly in place. “It involves an expedition, and I need you to join us. Your expertise with the Fade is crucial. This could be our chance to confront Corypheus and stop him once and for all.”

Finally. The thought escapes him. After being left out for weeks, he was about to be able to stand by her in a crucial moment. He must have let something slip, because she pauses for a brief moment, her expression softening slightly before she regains her composure.

“Our goal is to infiltrate Kirkwall under different disguises, covering all key areas. If Corypheus is looking for a new source of power, we need to find it first and destroy it,” she says firmly, though there's a trace of concern in her voice that she tries to mask.

Her tone is resolute, but there is an undercurrent of concern that she tries to mask. Solas takes a deep breath, his mind racing with the implications of the situation. If he could reach that source, he might restore some of his lost power. Depending on what it is, that might not be the worst outcome.

She pauses, lowering her head and fidgeting for a moment before speaking again. "I need to refine the details of the plan, but for now, I’ll only send a few trusted individuals. We can’t leave Skyhold completely unguarded. We’ll infiltrate Kirkwall gradually to avoid drawing attention. Dorian will pose as a Tevinter merchant mage with questionable interests. Varric will handle the city's political landscape unofficially. You will begin by investigating the area outside the city. I will take on a role in the Alienage, working for a friend of the Inquisition’s official envoy—Cullen."

The mention of Cullen takes a moment to fully register. Solas feels a dry lump form in his throat. The prospect of being separated from her for weeks stings deeply. Since the conclave, they haven't spent a full day apart before their breakup, and afterwards, waiting in Skyhold for her to return from missions proved to be a torture. But weeks away from her, knowing she would be working closely with Cullen? He struggled as his mind wrestles with reason and emotion, he finally finds his voice, only to see her watching him with an air of quiet curiosity.

"That is a solid plan, Inquisitor," he begins. "But sending you alone to the Alienage, where there have been kidnappings, seems dangerous. I should accompany you in your disguised role to—"

"No," she cuts him off, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone. It’s a rare moment where she doesn't seem interested in his input. "I won’t be alone. I’ll be accompanied by either Varric’s contacts or our own spies. We’ll maintain communication through the Fade. After you finish your investigation in the outskirts of Kirkwall, you can join me in the Alienage. We’ll pose as mages from the same Circle, hiding our abilities. Let the people believe that is our secret"

“It would be safer if I were there,” he insists.

“It would be,” she agrees reluctantly, her hands clenching into fists. “But there are reasons for this.”

"What reasons could possibly justify this?"

"Many reasons. I've meticulously planned this operation."

"Indeed, it seems well thought out, but your safety shouldn’t be compromised. I should be with you."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I need distance from you." Her voice rises in a way he has never heard before, raw and wounded. The sight of her breaking down in this manner shakes him deeply. "Do I really need to spell why out?"

He struggles to respond, the weight of her words pressing heavily on him. He needs to find something logical as a response.

"Focus on what matters," he says. "Harden your heart and use that pain to fight Corypheus."

His words cut deeply, her rage giving way to hurt. She places a hand over her heart, as though trying to protect herself from the impact of his proximity.

"I am," she continues, her voice softening but remaining firm. "Splitting our efforts is the best way to cover more ground. We don’t fully understand what’s happening or how much time we have. We’re the only ones who can study the Fade and communicate securely. I won’t be alone."

He nods, realizing the validity of her reasoning. Still, the thought of leaving her alone with Cullen gnaws at him. Her expression, filled with pain and resolve, makes it clear that his presence is more harmful to her now.

"You came to me in the Fade after Crestwood," she says quietly, her eyes reflecting a mix of sadness and frustration.

"I just wanted to—"

"I know what you wanted," she interrupts, her voice laced with a painful finality. "Please, refrain from that kind of intrusion again. I can handle myself."

"It seems Cullen is more than willing to assist you with that," he retorts, the words escaping before he can fully stop them. The bitterness in his voice can’t be mistaken. Is he young, guilless and lacking self control again? But the damage is done

She freezes, then starts slowly shaking her head, a cold fury possessing her. "How dare you question my plans on the grounds of petty jealousy? You relinquished your right to that when you left me in Crestwood."

She’s getting angry again, her voice lowering, anger a boulder weighing on her voice. "I had to climb all the way back to Skyhold. What were you thinking? Couldn’t you just do it in the rotunda, the gardens, my rooms, or here?"

"It wasn’t my intention. I wasn’t thinking…" How could he say I wasn’t thinking about leaving you, I was about to confess something that would make you part of a dark path.

"Oh really?" She uses sarcasm to cover her true feelings, clear as day in her eyes. She’s hurt, angry, heartbroken, resolving to acting unlike herself. He has seen it in her eyes since their breakup and again now. "What was your intention then?" Her anger is getting under his skin.

"I... vhenan."

The word lingers heavily between them. Both are frozen in the weight of the moment. He’s unsure how to navigate the aftermath of his own making. Her eyes well up with tears, and the sight strikes him like a physical blow. He takes a hesitant step forward but stops, heart aching with every beat.

"Don’t you ever call me that again," she says with cold determination. "If I were truly your heart, you wouldn’t have discarded me without explanation." She steps closer, her voice growing firmer with each stride. "If I were your heart, you wouldn’t lead me on and then leave me." Another step. "If I were your heart, you would tell me the truth." She’s now inches away, and his back is pressed against the wall of Skyhold, he’s cornered.

"I know you have secrets, a past that tears you apart," she continues, her voice a mixture of accusation and anguish. Switching to Elvhen, she adds, "I know you stopped teaching me Elvhen because you don’t want me to understand. The way you carry yourself, the way you speak—they’re not lessons from the Fade. They’re learned elsewhere."

He’s momentarily awed by her insights before fear grips him.

She continues letting out a stream that she has kept inside for…how long exactly? "At Halamshiral, you mentioned missing court intrigue. The way you spoke about it, how you were that night—it was different from the dreams you describe from the Fade. And you taught me that the Fade is a place where feelings and memories are reflected, where incompatible truths can be real at the same time. But when you talk about Elvhenan, the Creators, you are absolute.”

He gulps. She’s too close, she has observed him to a degree he didn’t believe possible, but she isn’t even done “Abelas didn’t recognize me as one of his people, but did so for you." she pauses “And when you were talking with Abelas? You said 'Your people yet linger' And abelas asked 'Elvhen such as you?' You weren't exactly subtle. It doesn’t make any sense, unless…” she shakes her head. Did she realize the truth but concluded that it was impossible?

Her voice trembles with intensity. "I don’t believe you discovered everything you know from the Fade. No apostate from a remote village could know so much. I’ve considered many possibilities. Were you raised by ancient elves? Did your family serve them through countless generations, aiding in their Uthenera and defending sacred temples? Is there a hidden society of ancient elves, and have you been part of their gatherings? How could an elven apostate miss being an authority figure?"

Her Elvhen isn’t flawless; her accent falters, and she mixes in Common words. Despite only a few months of scattered lessons, he was in awe of her brilliance. Her ability to deduce so much from so little is both impressive and terrifying. Stopping her lessons had been the right call.

"Please," she says softly, her voice breaking, "If I am your heart, confide in me. I’ll share the burden. You don’t have to be alone. Don’t shut me out."

Her hand rests gently on his chest, and he feels the quick rhythm of his heart thudding in response. The vulnerability in her eyes, combined with her earnest plea, is almost too much to bear. He is caught between the weight of his secrets and the undeniable truth of her words.

Solas's hand rises toward her cheek, almost instinctively, drawn by the closeness and the intensity of the moment. Her presence is overwhelming; he can smell her, feel the warmth radiating from her. Her skin is soft under his fingertips, her lips parted slightly, caught between the thoughts she fears might shatter this fragile instant.

As she closes the distance between them, he feels the aching pull of hope in her eyes, a glimmer that reflects the fragile trust and yearning she has for him. He wants this. He wants her. He wants to give himself the chance to not be alone anymore. But as much as he wants to embrace that hope, he cannot. She’s a hair away from the truth, it’s true, but it’s the least offensive part of it. The weight of his past, his crimes, and his plans for the destruction of her world make it all impossible to dream of that. He is the architect of so much—millennia of undue early deaths of elves, their enslavement, suffering. Each elven life that has been affected, including hers, it’s his fault. Each imprisoned and killed mage, his fault. The death of the young man that attracted Cole here, starved and terrified? His fault. The recent events, after Corypheus got his orb, as terrible as they are, are just the tip of the iceberg. But he’s nonetheless responsible for it all: the destruction of Haven, the havoc wrought by Corypheus, the severance from her beloved clanmates, and the antagonism toward her Gods. The anchor, that will kill her unless he can garner more power and take it back before its influence digs deeper. How could she possibly accept him, knowing all this? How could he take her with him on a journey he believes will lead to destruction?

Pushing her away again is a torment greater than the first. His hands, shaking, find her shoulders and gently create the space between them that his crimes demand.

"I... can’t," he says, his voice cracking with anguish. The words feel like a physical blow as they leave his lips. He cannot bring himself to meet her gaze, the gravity of his words and their implications too crushing to bear.

For a moment, time stretches, each second an eternity of unspoken pain. He can feel her withdrawing, her warmth dissipating like mist in the cold morning air.

"I hope your secrets are worth it," she finally says, her voice icy and distant. The hurt in her tone cuts him deeply, and he raises his eyes to meet hers.

Her face is a mask of cold politeness, a demeanor so unlike the warmth she's always embodied, but eerily reminiscent of his own. It sends a shiver down his spine. Is this how he appears to the world now? Has he broken her?

"I accept your decision," she continues, her voice devoid of emotion. "I would appreciate it if you didn’t come here anymore. I’ll take your things to the rotunda. Unless you want to take back your gift."

"No, I do not," he replies, his voice a hollow echo of his earlier resolve.

"Good. Now leave. And never question my authority again."

She turns away from him, sitting down and picking up a parchment with some lines already written, the ink still glistening with recent use. Solas stands motionless for a moment longer, watching her in silence. Then, he made himself turn and walk away. He felt as if each step was heavier then the last, and when he last looked at her, the sun fully risen, she looked like a statue, so unlike her soft self. Was he destined to destroy everything he loved?

-
INQUISITOR

The mission plan was coming together piece by piece as everyone gathered in the War Room. The Inquisitor, though clearly exhausted, stood at the center, her determination unwavering. She meticulously went over the details again, her voice steady despite her visible fatigue. The animated discussion stretched into lunch, showing no signs of slowing down. At one point, the Inquisitor stepped away for a much-needed two-hour nap, having sacrificed rest to prep for the meeting. Even in her absence, the room buzzed with activity.

By dinner time, the team dispersed with their assignments clearly defined. The Inquisitor slipped away quietly, avoiding even the pretense of grabbing a meal, and retreated to her quarters. During the entire period, she avoided meeting Solas’s gaze, and he remained silent, his calm demeanor masking a storm of emotions beneath the surface.

As night fell, both were utterly exhausted. Even Cole, made no effort to bring them back together. Solas, driven by a mix of concern and desperation, sought out the Inquisitor later in the night. He approached her in the Fade, only to find a barrier—a ward clearly set to keep him out. He could have easily bypassed it, but he took the barrier as a sign that he was not welcome. With a heavy heart, he retreated.

In the following days, Skyhold was a hive of activity. Preparations for the mission took over every corner of the fortress. Leliana was a whirlwind of efficiency, sending out messages by crows, messengers, and caravans at such a frenetic pace that it was impossible to keep track of the operation's scale. She managed it all with the calm precision of someone who thrived in chaos.

Meanwhile, Josephine’s concern grew as she watched the relentless pace of work. Her own workload was just as intense, balancing missives, strategizing for the new mission, and refining Cullen’s diplomatic skills. The pressure was mounting, each day a race against time to ensure every detail was in place before the mission’s departure.

In a rare moment of calm, Josephine called Leliana to discuss the mounting stress. “Leliana, you need to take a break,” Josephine said firmly, though her own exhaustion was evident. “We need to talk about how you’re managing all this. It’s becoming overwhelming.”

Leliana, always composed, nodded in agreement. “Of course, Josephine. I appreciate your concern, but I assure you, I’ve got everything under control.”

Despite Leliana’s assurances, Josephine’s worry didn’t fade. She knew how critical their roles were, and any lapse in preparation could have serious consequences.

Josephine’s own attempts to secure a role in the Kirkwall mission had been repeatedly shot down. “It’s too risky,” she was told. While a few errors might be overlooked for someone from a less prominent background, an attack on her could have far-reaching repercussions. Reluctantly, she accepted her role in Skyhold, her desire to be on the front lines thwarted by practicality.

Meanwhile, Cullen was stretched thin. His days were packed with responsibilities that ranged from overseeing the usual duties of the Inquisition to intensive diplomatic training under Josephine’s watchful eye. Added to this were his sessions with the Inquisitor, training that was as physically demanding as it was emotionally taxing. Since the encounter with the Templar that had left the Inquisitor temporarily powerless, Cullen had been working to prepare her for similar scenarios, ensuring she could handle such situations without being powerless without her magic.

Cullen was exhausted but resolute. Today, however, there was no time for additional training. He had to focus on preparing Cassandra to step into his role while he was away. “Cassandra,” Cullen said, his tone brisk but carrying a note of respect, “I need you to be ready to take over my responsibilities. There’s a lot at stake, and you’ll need to be prepared for anything.”

Cassandra nodded, her expression a mix of determination and understanding. “You can rely on me, Cullen. I’ll ensure everything runs smoothly.”

As Cullen prepared for his impending departure, the weight of responsibility was evident in every furrow of his brow. The balance between duty and personal commitment was precarious, but each member of the team knew their role was vital to the success of their mission.

"Underwater. No air. No rest. She can't resurface, she can't drown. There's only pain and confusion, no relief" Cole was, in his way, scolding Solas. He ignored.

"Eyes borrowing into her, searching, wanting, and then turning, pushing her away. Unwanted. Desidered. Discarded. Yearned for. She doesn't which side is real. Tell her!" He followed his friend persistently. He ignored.

"Asundered but whole. Entire but empty. You don't need to choose that. You need to choose her. Words for her." He ignored.
"Realization, horror, violence, death. The last Glimmer of Hope swallowed by the jaws of the wolf" Cole shakes his head "It doesn't have to end this way

The days leading up to the departure were a blend of frantic activity and strained patience, each person grappling with the immense pressure of their respective tasks. The Inquisitor tries to hide her anchor’s flare ups, her emotional state the catalyst for her physical pain. With each day, she gets back control of her feelings.

In the midst of this chaos, the preparation for the mission continued, each person contributing their expertise to ensure the Inquisition’s goals were met and their allies protected.

VARRIC
Varric sat in his usual spot at the tavern, taking in the lively atmosphere with a contented grin. The place was a rare gem. He'd seen it all: people from every walk of life coming together under one roof, sharing stories, laughter, and the occasional bout of drunken mishap. That tavern was peculiar, because there in Skyhold there was none but them and the constant stream of dignitaries from all nations, that rarely participated, unless they were spies. It was a welcome respite from the often grim duties that came with being a member of the Inquisition.

The Inquisitor’s appearances at the tavern were always cause for celebration. Tonight was no different. As the door swung open and she stepped in, dressed in a stunning ensemble of sky-blue silk and golden threads, the room erupted in cheers. Her arrival was met with the raucous enthusiasm only found in the best of taverns. Bull, in his usual boisterous fashion, led the charge in welcoming her, roaring louder than the rest and collecting coins from patrons in a good-natured bet that had been in progress.

The Inquisitor, clad in what was practically a Dalish dress with Tevene taste added to hit, that left her with shoulders bare and a deep neckline, draped elegantly on her body, responded with a deep bow that drew laughter and applause. Cullen's expression was one of stunned admiration—something Varric found endlessly amusing. The dress, with its daring cut and slits, left little to the imagination but fit the Inquisitor’s nature perfectly.

Dorian, ever the showman, took the opportunity to spin her around, his pride evident. “Finally I see you with this,” he said, his voice tinged with a mix of triumph and affection. “I designed it just for you, you know. I believe three tailors left the craft before it was finished.”

The Inquisitor giggled, blushing bright even in the dim light of the tavern. “I promised, didn’t I?” She playfully tugged a strand of her hair behind an ear, a rare moment of modesty showing through her usual confidence.

Dorian led her towards the Chargers’ corner, where Bull and his crew had already made themselves at home. The Inquisitor’s presence always sparked an infectious energy, and tonight was no exception. She waved cheerfully to familiar faces, including Varric and Cullen. Cullen, suddenly very engrossed in their board game, made a futile attempt to mask his blush with a haphazard hand.

“Cuuurlyyyy!” Varric called out with exaggerated cheer.

“Not now,” Cullen grumbled, desperately focusing on the scattered game pieces.

“Come on now, a few drinks in and she’ll be all ready to hear your love confession,” Varric teased, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

The night unfolded with a predictable, yet delightful chaos. There were drinks, laughter, and some shouting of perfect kitten names. Bull paraded the Inquisitor on his shoulder around the tavern, much to everyone’s amusement. She joined in the bard’s performance, her singing voice far from perfect but filled with enthusiasm. She was the life of the party, even more so than when she came with Solas, dragging him into being social. She cast colorful sparks into the air and promised the innkeeper she wouldn’t use fire magic—until she promptly did so the moment his back was turned.
As the Inquisitor danced with half the tavern, showing off intricate Dalish steps, her joy was palpable. Even Varric and Cullen found themselves pulled onto the dance floor, their resistance crumbling under her infectious spirit. Dorian, eventually worn down, slumped into a chair, defeated by her exuberance.
“You should train with Cullen too,” she slurred, resting her head on Dorian’s shoulder. Her voice was filled with genuine affection as she hugged him tightly.

“Do not fall asleep on my shoulder,” Dorian warned with a chuckle, “We’ll both fall and you’ll ruin your pretty dress. You won’t be able to wear it for a while then”

She looked up at him with a sweet, albeit tipsy, smile. “I will never wear it again,” she promised, then kissed the tip of his nose before bursting into laughter.
“More often,” Dorian insisted, laughing alongside her. “You should wear stuff like this more often. You’ll get more followers. Especially if you want to become my cover wife. You’d make me look bad.”

Bull takes action. He steals Dorian and draps him on one of his shoulders like he weighs nothing. As Bull took Dorian off for a ‘stern reminder,’ the Inquisitor almost fell to the floor in a fit of laughter, her sides aching.

“Play louder,” she shouted to the bard, her tone playful. “I don’t want to hear anything!”

She gestured at the Chargers with a grin. “And you degenerates sing, it’s an order!”

With that, the tavern roared back into its usual din of merriment. The Inquisitor, now with a more relaxed posture, joined Varric on his couch, shaking off the laughter and wiping a few stray tears from her eyes.

“Enjoying the night?” Varric asked, a smirk playing on his lips.

“Can’t you tell?” she replied, her face still lit with a mischievous grin. Then, without missing a beat, and no shift in her tone she asked “I came to talk about our expedition. Have you heard from your contacts?”

Varric blinked, momentarily stunned. The tavern was still a cacophony of noise, the very embodiment of revelry, yet here she was, shifting gears with the ease of a spy. Bull kept telling him she would have made for a good Ben-Hassrath, but he always thought he was joking.

“I thought you took the night off, Glimmer” he said, trying to process the abrupt change in topic.

“I will, after this,” she said with a casual shrug, though her eyes remained sharp. “Unless you want to enjoy yourself. I thought that here, no one would overhear us.”

The tavern was indeed a fortress of noise and chaos, a perfect cover for confidential conversations. Did she intentionally stir more chaos? Varric studied her for a moment, wondering if she had purposely waited for this moment of relative privacy and the location of the couch, back against a wall with no other immediate sitting spots beside it. He didn’t dare ask, choosing instead to focus on her question, ready to discuss the expedition amidst the raucous cheer surrounding them.

“Let’s talk,” Varric said, taking a leisurely sip of his ale. “I’ve got some good news. You’ve read my books, so some of these people won’t be new to you.”

The Inquisitor, leaning comfortably on his shoulder, nodded. She looked up at him with a grin that spoke of both inebriation and genuine interest.

“Merrill, my blood mage Dalish friend, is already at the alienage,” Varric continued, as if discussing the most mundane topic. “She came back after hearing about disappearing elves. She’s not much for investigation, so she’ll need help.” He gestured towards a group of patrons engaged in a drunken game of dice, their boisterous laughter filling the air. “Then there’s Fenris, the lyrium-covered elf. He’s heading to Kirkwall but won’t arrive for a while. He’ll stir up trouble and attract attention—he’s rather good at it. He’ll pretend not to know you or like you, but that’s a skill that comes naturally to him.”
The Inquisitor chuckled, clearly amused by the thought of Fenris making a scene.

“I have several contacts scattered around town—trusted merchants who can get you what you need, warriors if necessary. And,” Varric paused for effect, “I found a noble who owes me his title. You’ll act as his servant, which will give you an excuse to slip into Hightown unnoticed.”

The Inquisitor wet her lips, uncomfortable but resolute. Krem came over with a smile, and Nuria grabbed a cup that Krem had shoved into her hands, and they took a moment to chat with him. Krem’s good-natured presence and their brief conversation were a pleasant diversion. When Krem tried to coax the Inquisitor back to the dance floor, she declined, citing dizziness as an excuse. From the way she swayed, it was clear that her excuse was less than an excuse, and more of a fact.

“There’s another… contact,” Varric said, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.

“I’m listening,” she murmured, her voice edged with curiosity.

“Well,” Varric began, “have you ever heard of golems?”

The Inquisitor frowned slightly. “I’m sorry?”

“Golems,” Varric explained. “Legendary constructs from—”

She didn’t lift her head, but her voice cut through with a sharper tone. “I know. But you… you know a golem?”

Varric nodded. “Yes, though she’s rather peculiar. She stays in the Deep Roads and around Kirkwall, mostly dealing with pigeons.” The Inquisitor snorted, clearly amused. “She offered to help before, and she can. But we’ll need to keep her away from Kirkwall itself unless we want to cause a panic or have her captured.”

The Inquisitor managed to raise her head, her face lit with incredulous laughter. “You’re not joking. You really are offering us the help of a pigeon-killing golem who’s thousands of years old?”

Varric grinned, his own laughter bubbling up. “What can I say? I attract only the finest.”

“Does she specifically hate pigeons? Or is it a golem thing?” The Inquisitor’s laughter was infectious, and Varric found himself joining in with a controlled chuckle.

“She apparently spent years as a statue,” Varric explained. “She developed a particular dislike for pigeons during that time.”

The Inquisitor’s laughter intensified, her whole body shaking with mirth. She clutched the table for support, tears of laughter streaming down her face. Varric watched with a mixture of amusement and concern. He’d never seen her so thoroughly intoxicated.

Cullen reentered the tavern after a brief walk, his gaze falling on the Inquisitor and Varric. His smile grew as he took in their state of merriment.

“I missed something?” he asked, bemused.

“I’ll tell you tomorrow,” the Inquisitor said between bursts of laughter. She fanned herself, trying to catch her breath. Varric patted her back, his own laughter subsiding.

“Are you sure it’s not time for you to retire?” Varric asked gently.

“Nonsense,” she declared, pushing herself into a standing position that was only just steady. “I just started.” With a flourish, she headed back to the dance floor.

“You missed your window,” Varric said to Cullen as he sat down. “You could go dance with her again.”

Varric gave Cullen a playful shove, and the former Templar rose, albeit reluctantly. It was still early, but Varric had reached the point where he felt ready to call it a night. He wondered if he was simply getting old or if the night had taken its toll. No, he wasn’t old, not yet. He wasn’t grey yet, and his bushy chest was as bushy as it had ever been.

As he prepared to leave, Cole appeared where the Inquisitor had been sitting. His presence startled Varric, pulling him back into his seat.

“She misses you too,” Cole said coolly, his gaze fixed on the Inquisitor, now dancing with Cullen.

Varric sighed. Ever since Solas had “helped” Cole, he’d grown even more cryptic. “I wasn’t thinking about her.”

“But you were,” Cole countered. “Young love should sprout where it can bloom. You want them to be happy, like you couldn’t be.”

“Yes,” Varric conceded. “I suppose so.”

Meanwhile, Cullen had mustered the courage to join the Inquisitor on the dance floor. She greeted him with a cheerful smile, enveloping him in the dance and tossing colorful magical confetti into the air.
As Varric watched, Cole spoke again. “He’s hopeful, blue fading when she’s around. He sees her shine. But she sees a shadow of a brother—missed and beloved. He’s a friend who needs help. I’ll shelter him.”
Cole widened his eyes then and added
“She is escaping. Dance, drink, work until I can’t think, until it doesn’t hurt anymore. But her feet are not fast enough”

Varric nodded, taking in the cryptic words. “I can see that. How about Chuckles? How is he faring?”

“Love and pain, knotted tightly in his chest,” Cole replied. “He feels the jaw of the wolf closing. He’ll always win. He tries to bury his heart deep, but it keeps digging its way up, and he doesn’t know how to stop.”

Varric considered this, watching the crowd of dancers with a renewed perspective. “I see,” he said thoughtfully. His gaze returned to the Inquisitor, now joyfully dancing with Cullen. Perhaps his own meddling was having unexpected consequences.

But as he observed Cullen’s flushed face and the genuine happiness between them, Varric wondered if his efforts, however misguided, were not in vain.

Chapter Text

Preparations for the mission were in full swing, with Varric already in Kirkwall. The air buzzed with urgency and determination as agents, messengers, and supplies moved in a coordinated effort. It was in the midst of this organized chaos that a missive arrived at Skyhold, bearing the official news of the statue of Meredith disappearing. It was time for the operation to progress. However, the Inquisitor was not there to receive it. As planned, she was on a mission not too far from Skyhold, leading a group to deal with a group of corrupted Templars. These renegades had turned to banditry, terrorizing a nearby village.

INQUISITOR
The group they had encountered wasn’t what they had expected. Instead of corrupted Templars, they faced a band of skilled warriors who were completely clean-shaven: no beards, no hair, not even eyebrows. The ritualistic aspect of their appearance was deeply unsettling. It was as if they were part of some new, obscure cult that the Inquisition had yet to encounter. Why couldn’t it ever be something straightforward? 

Regardless, the group had been swiftly dealt with, and the Inquisitor had a chance to put Cullen's physical combat training to the test. In the midst of battle, she executed a move Cullen had drilled into her, a swift knife thrust that saved her life. The rogue who had tried to ambush her lay dead at her feet, her knife neatly embedded in his heart. Her own heart still pounded with the adrenaline rush.

"Not bad for a mage, Boss!" roared The Iron Bull proudly. She was staring at the rogue, eyes widened, not daring to breathe. That was close, too close. He patted her back and she nearly stumbled forward.

“C’mon, Boss, take the compliment. It’s well-deserved,” he said, turning to clean his massive axe on one of the bodies. She just felt very lucky

From the corner, Sera snorted while observing the cultists, amused. “Well, if it isn’t the latest fashion statement. These cultists look like Solas’s long-lost twin brothers.”

Her comment caught everyone’s attention. Dorian, a sarcastic smile on his face, prodded further “Sera, what do you mean?” His voice was dripping with sarcasm. He knew exactly what she meant, but wanted to evoke something funnier from her mouth.

Sera grinned, eyes sparkling with mischief, taking the bait willingly. “You know, the bald heads, the clean shaves—if Solas ever needed to blend in with a group of eggheads, he’d fit right in. Might make a great disguise for a shopping trip in Orlais.”

The group chuckled, and even the Inquisitor couldn’t help but let out a breath of laughter. The humor lightened the mood, offering her a chance to breathe again.

“I’m sure Solas would appreciate the comparison,” Nuria said, shaking her head with a smile. “But let’s keep our wits about us. If this is a new cult, I’m sure we’ll be in the middle of it very soon” She pins her hands on her hips, weapons sheathed. The Inquisition attracted only the weirdest events in all of Thedas.

“We should go to the village and see if there’s anyone else. Make sure the people are alright,” she adds, starting for her goal.

They reached the village quickly, only to be met with a scene of absolute carnage. Corpses were impaled, mutilated, women lay bare and tied with their throats slit. The Inquisitor felt a shiver run down her spine. They hadn’t made it in time.

“Is anyone alive? We killed the attackers; you’re safe now!” she called out, her tone edged with dread. There was no reply. She moved among the bodies, noting lovers speared together in their final embrace, the old trying to shield the young, and an inordinate amount of cut limbs, empty eye sockets, terrified, empty eyes staring at death.

“They slaughtered everyone. Why?” she whispered.

“Sometimes it is what it is, Boss,” Bull offered grimly.

“Fuck that,” she spat, horror replaced by anger. This level of brutality was unnecessary. What were those people doing here?

Her attention was caught by a circle of blood where a young man lay, marked with symbols in his own blood, his face twisted in terror. He was positioned carefully, and so were five other bodies around a massive circle. Most of it was burned down, she could only spot signs of what had happened. The main attraction of the ritual must have been a poor scorched human hanged on a cross made with wood, but there was so little left of the ritual that it was a wonder what happened. Still there were some symbols, and it all seemed very intentional

“Dorian, copy the symbols, the circle, and the position of the bodies,” she ordered. Nearby, she noticed consumed candles and ... eyes.

“Was that a ritual? For whom?” she wondered aloud, looking back toward where the bodies of the cultists were.

“I don’t like this. Too weird. What were they doing?” Sera posed it as a question, but her companions were just as perplexed.

“Let’s keep looking for clues, and keep your eyes open. There could be more hiding.” adds Nuria curtly, looking around suspiciously, staff drawn.

The group moved through the village methodically, their senses on high alert. The quiet was unsettling, broken only by the occasional creak of wood or rustle of leaves. The carnage continued all the way into the village. None was saved by the cruelty, the old and the young still in their hiding spots, arms raised in useless defense, the old trying to shield their little ones with their bodies. As they neared the stables, a faint, muffled noise caught their attention, almost indistinguishable from the ambient sounds. The stench hit them next, an overpowering odor of rot and decay, unmistakably manure.

They exchanged wary glances, weapons at the ready, anticipating the worst. Bull stepped forward and, with a grimace, lifted the lid of a large, reeking composter. The sight that stopped them cold. Two children were huddled within the muck, half-submerged in the foul mixture.

The older child, a girl of around eight, was desperately trying to shield her younger brother. Her pigtails were matted with filth, but her piercing brown eyes blazed with defiance and protectiveness. She held the toddler close, his small body trembling as he wailed and kicked, his face streaked with tears and manure. Despite the filth, the girl remained resolute, shushing her brother with quiet, urgent whispers, trying to keep him calm..

“You’re safe now,” the Inquisitor said gently, letting her staff fall to the ground.

“Who are you?” the girl asked aggressively, holding her brother closer.

“I’m the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. Have you heard of me?” she asked tentatively.

“You have the weird tattoos,” the girl replied, not entirely convinced.

“Where’s mommy? She told us to wait here,” the girl continued.

The Inquisitor felt a shiver run down her spine but maintained a calm and welcoming expression. “Your mom came to me, asking for help,” she lied smoothly, with a gentle voice. “We’ll bring you to her. Just promise to close your eyes really tight, and when we get to Skyhold, I’ll give you candy and a very special gift.” Her tone slowly shifted from calm to enthusiasm and promise

She turned to her group. “Please find some blankets. They’re wet; we need to keep them warm. And a horses we need to get them to Skyhold”

Within minutes, Sera returned with a horse, and Dorian brought blankets, mostly unbloodied. In the meantime, Bull and the Inquisitor had been chatting with the kids, promising food for the little one who was fascinated by Bull’s horns.

“Okay, now my friend will pick you both up. Remember, it’s very important to keep your eyes shut, or no candy,” she emphasized, managing a serene and playful expression. They started with the younger child, wrapping him in a blanket as Bull scooped him up. The Inquisitor held him and took a step back.

When it was the older child’s turn, the group held their breath.

“Remember, eyes closed,” the Inquisitor reminded her with a sing-song tone. The little one laughed, too young to grasp the situation completely, and calmed by the promise of her mom being safe. The girl scrunched her face, keeping her eyes tightly shut. Bull carefully wrapped her in a blanket and lifted her, shielding her as much as possible with his massive body, then mounted the horse with both children quickly.

As they trotted out of the village, everything was quiet. The rest of the group ran after them, holding their breaths. Suddenly, the screaming started. The girl had opened her eyes.
-
By the time they reached Skyhold, the girl’s blood-curdling screams have softened into hopeless sobs, while the boy slept restfully against the Inquisitor’s chest. Nuria teared up silently, her expression cold. The boy woke up only when the gate opened loudly, rubbing his eyes and looking around curiously. The girl clutched Bull as tightly as she could, her eyes filled with horror. Lost innocence. The anchor emitted a few, painful sparks at times, but the Inquisitor did a daring effort of self control, keeping it in check.

“Sera, run and tell the servants to start a fire and a bath in my quarters, and see if we can find someone who knows how to care for young children, or better yet, Mother Giselle,” the Inquisitor ordered, her tone sure and commanding, even as the tears continued streaming quietly. Sera nodded and left quickly. The soldiers noticed the kids. They’ve all seen kids like these before. The Inquisitor locked eyes with a soldier and gave him a direct order.

“Find Josephine and tell her the Inquisitor wants to see her in her office, now.” The soldier sprinted without hesitation.

“Bull, take the kids to my quarters and please keep them company until I send someone to attend to their needs.”

“Dorian, get something from the kitchen for them. Some candies, cake? We have plenty.”

As she offered the boy to Bull, he reached back for her, clinging tightly.

“I’m coming soon, I promise,” she reassured both children. Bull took them away, and the Inquisitor couldn’t breathe for a few seconds. She forces herself to start breathing again, regularly. She must stay strong. She has to. Push it in, push it down. She assessed her body for a second. Better.

“Cole.” It’s just a whisper, but it’s enough. The spirit appeared almost instantly. A small, fragile smile forms in the Inquisitor’s face. Seeing him makes her breathe easier.

“The kids need you. Especially the girl. Soothe them but don’t make them forget yet. We need to ask them questions, see their memories to understand what happened to their parents first,” she interrupts herself, “Just. Please?” She knew she has no control over him, and he simply vanished.

She looked at her soiled robes. The little one hadn’t contained himself for the whole trip, adding to the manure and blood. She stepped up the staircase, and soldiers avoid approaching her. The state in which she is and her resolute and angry expression kept everyone at bay. As she reached the entrance of Skyhold, she saw Josephine rushing out to meet her. Josephine took one look and asked

“Are you all right? Are you sure you don’t want to wait?”

“I can’t wait one more second.”

Josephine nodded, curling up her nose at the awful smell the Inquisitor was radiating. She needed to start the process now, before she left. The hall was full of people, allies and friends of the Inquisition. Solas, walking around with an armful of painting supplies, saw her state and his mask of politeness cracks, showing genuine concern. He stepped closer as she followed Josephine.

“What happened? Are you all right?” Solas asked, mask forgotten, his face open and worried. At some level she's glad his arms are full, or she knew he would have reached out. If he did, she would have crumbled in his arms in Josie's office.

She tried to harden her expression instead, to make herself cold as he had once advised, but she couldn’t. Especially when he looked at her with such concern. She just felt another round of hot tears on her cheeks. She looked down, she couldn't face him like this. Push it in. Push it down. You're in control. She said nothing and walked into Josephine’s office, leaving her former lover behind, speechless.

-
"An orphanage?" Josephine almost shouted. "We just finished restoring Skyhold. We don’t have that amount of money on hand. We can send them to another orphanage."

"How many days of travel is the closest one? And are you telling me that with all that is happening, they all have proper funding and aren’t sending kids away because they don’t have room?"

Josephine had no retort other than, "But it’s an amount of resources we do not have."

"Then sell some of my stuff."

Josephine was speechless, affronted by the notion.

"I receive gifts from nobles, do I not? More gold, robes, and useless crap than I’ll ever know what to do with. My horse right now is carrying gold rings and coins we fished from the corpses of the dead villagers and attackers. I have more than I know what to do with."

"Inquisitor, many of the things you possess are essential to maintain an appearance of power and security. We can’t. End of discussion. You have to trust me on this." Josephine bolted for the door, not quite running, but almost.

"I’m not saying to go to the Winter Palace in these robes," the Inquisitor opened her arms. This was starting to look like a proper screaming match, the first they ever had. She followed Josephine. They were in the main hall. Josephine thought she wouldn't dare, but after what she had seen that day, she won’t take no for an answer. Their hasty exit from the office made more than a few heads turn. The two women looked at the hall and then at each other with synchronicity that could not have been practiced. The Inquisitor took a deep breath and planted a diplomatic serene smile on her face, more for the sake of others than Josephine. Josephine did the same. Nuria, wrapped her arm around the diplomat’s confidently and easily. She started walking at a leisurely pace, like they were strolling. Josephine couldn’t help but make a face because of the smell, but she didn’t try to retreat again. A few steps gave the Inquisitor time to speak her thoughts without grief and anger accompanying them.

"I know the names of all the most prominent figures in Thedas. I wear all the things you tell me to when the need arises, even heels. I have always listened and respected your thoughts and knowledge of human culture, and I’ve always allocated a percentage of our forces to resource gathering. The problem is that we don’t have enough money for setup now because we just finished the last touches to restore Skyhold and outfit our army for Corypheus, is that correct?"

"Yes," Josephine conceded, her face still agonizing. She’s the one who tried to retreat after all. And the smell didn't help. They both nodded at some dignitaries visiting Skyhold. More weird looks.

"Then please, let’s find a way. I have troves of stuff I’ll never need or use, and I sent Clan Lavellan more than they could host in aravels once they’re on the road again. We could host a charity party before I leave, putting everything on auction. We could even add some extras, like a luncheon with me, my signature on their Chant books, or even visits in their dreams. No, that would cause a panic. That would do it, right?"

Josephine thought about it for a few seconds before nodding and adding, "I thought you didn’t want to encourage people to think of you as the Herald of Andraste."

The Inquisitor sighs and shrugs. "Giving a chance to these kids is more important than my pride, and…I hate it, but you can just say Inquisitor, right? I know it’s selfish of me, but I don’t want people to think of me as a Divine Being of sorts" she concludes. She stopped, trying to grasp Josephine’s hands in hers. The woman shudders; she might have never touched anything so filthy in her life. The Inquisitor retreated her hands and chuckled, getting a small smile out of the Antivan.

"Agreed?"

"Agreed, as long as you promise to bathe immediately. You are absolutely disgusting. We need to talk as soon as you can. We have to discuss flower arrangements." It’s their key phrase. The news had reached Skyhold; phase two begins.

She was so filthy that her robes will need Dagna’s intervention to be cleaned without stripping them of their magic, and the Inquisitor herself will need an extended bath to truly be clean again. In the meantime, she did the best she could in the servant quarters, quickly, because she wanted to reach the children as soon as possible. She was nearly passable when she entered her chambers, where a luxurious and inviting bath awaited the children, the smell faintly welcoming her as soon as she opened the doors. The scene, however, was less than inviting.

Some of her wood carvings and cookies were scattered on the floor, and two servants were a few steps removed from the kids. The older one was glaring at them, putting her brother behind her back to defend him. She looked feral, like a cornered animal knowing there’s no escape but not willing to go down easy. The fire crackling in a corner of the room left worrying shadows on her face. The older servant turned to the Inquisitor, alarmed, and after a small curtsey she lamented, "Your Grace, she bit me."

Cole was perched on a desk behind them, completely invisible to all in the room but her. "The anger is the king sitting on a throne of hurt. I can’t help if I can’t remove the hurt," he explained. Bull and Dorian were in a corner of the room, evidently at a loss and glad to see her.

"I don’t know what to do, Boss," Bull said, sounding uncharacteristically helpless.

"It’s okay," she said quickly, addressing the children next. She knelt to be at eye level with the girl, on the other side of the room. The girl's feral eyes darted all over the room. Her breaths were ragged, too fast, her right hand in front of her as defense, her left in front of her brother, protective, while the little one was busy playing with a carved boar, sitting on the floor. When the Inquisitor looked at the girl, she had a sweet and caring expression, soft as the clouds puncturing the sky today, warm and welcoming.

"You are in Skyhold. This is my home, and these people," she pointed vaguely at the whole room, "are friends. They just want to help you get clean."

The little girl looked not remotely convinced, so the Inquisitor tried again, "If you like, I can send them away." And as she said that, Mother Giselle entered the room. She was incredibly warm when her eyes met the kids’.

"This is Mother Giselle." She didn't look at the woman, recognized the sound of her heavy robes. "You had a revered mother in your village, right?" The memory of the maimed body of the poor woman crossed her mind. It seemed like the attackers were particularly ferocious with her.

She tried to keep calm nonetheless. The girl looked at Giselle, then at the Inquisitor. She hoped that an authority figure familiar to them, a religious one at that, could make her feel a little safer.

"Could everyone leave the room except for Mother Giselle? We’ll take care of the kids."

Everyone left without saying a word except for Bull. "We… can play again with my horns, if you like, later." The Inquisitor smiled without adding a word. Softie. Once everyone had left, the girl seemed calmer. She lowered her arms. Cole was still there.

"Blood. Guts. Eyes open wide, but empty. People look wrong, twisted and turned, missing parts. I promised mommy. But the monster will eat us too"

The Inquisitor takes a deep breath. These words will surely be part of a nightmare, eventually. But she needed to keep steady for the moment. In control.

"The monsters can’t come here," Cole whispered. "She will protect. She will make it better."

"Andraste may guide your path, children," said Mother Giselle, stepping into her role, crouching next to the Inquisitor. "The Bride of the Maker allowed her Herald to find you and save you. You’re safe here, you’re in His hands." A little too abstract maybe for a girl that age, but she must have gotten a general sense of calm from the silken voice of the woman, her uniform, or maybe it was Cole. Whatever the case, the girl nodsmded briefly and let he two women approach.

The Inquisitor gently extended a hand, her voice soothing. "Let’s get you and your brother cleaned up. It’s been a long day, and you both deserve to rest and feel safe." The girl hesitated for a moment, then slowly reached out, taking the Inquisitor's hand. The tension in the room eased slightly, and the boy, still clutching the carved boar, looked up curiously.

As they moved towards the bath, the Inquisitor glanced back at Cole, who gave a reassuring nod before disappearing. Small steps. With a deep breath, she led them to the bath, determined to take care of them and bring them justice.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

They bathe the children with gentleness, moving slowly because sudden movements scare the older girl. Everything proceeds smoothly until they find that she was hiding a golden necklace with a round pendant full of gems, which she insists on holding. That somehow triggers the little boy to call for his mom. He’s calm at first, certain she will come soon, but when she doesn’t, he starts wailing, and the two women run out of ways to distract him. Finally, the Inquisitor manages to cradle the little boy to sleep in her arms. Skyhold is not equipped with children's clothes, and the smallest dwarven clothes the servants managed to provide look enormous on him, but they’ll keep him warm, coupled with the blankets. Since her brother started wailing, the little girl has become completely catatonic, no matter what Cole whispers to her.

“Could you please call in Solas and tell him to wait by the door?” she asks, and Cole disappears. Mother Giselle recoils and shudders even though she didn’t see him, clearly disapproving of her closeness to the spirit. The girl acts like a doll, letting them dry her, dress her, and place her gently next to her brother. However, her eyes remain wide open, and Nuria noticed while washing her some bruises on her body from struggling to free herself from Bull. She’s not sure she should heal them right now. She looks at the little girl’s face. No, maybe tomorrow.

Mother Giselle sets out to try and lull the girl to sleep with an Andrastian story or a human fable, she’s not sure. Cole returns, whispering soothing things to the girl. The Inquisitor rises and, when she crosses the door, Solas is there, waiting for her. He should be wearing his mask of coldness, instead he’s openly worried, and when he sees the Inquisitor he starts towards her, with the warmth he would have shown before. He stops however. She’s not sure what her face is doing right now, but at least it has stopped him from hugging her. That would have been worse. She takes a breath.

“Give me a moment,” she asks, going through a door and leaning against it, closing her eyes and leaning her head back. She’s in a utility closet, the smell of dust entering her nostrils with every breath. She stays there for a time she can’t process, too busy steadying herself and her breaths. She barely noticed starting breathing unevenly. She couldn’t crumble, not now. In the past Solas would have been a steadying presence, she would have melted in his arms and felt the world realign. But now, having him so close and yet so far made things worse. She moved a hand on her nose and mouth, and she needed to recall all of her training as a mage to get back to normal and stop the flashes of today and all the other battles like that from shattering her mind. Not now. Solas doesn’t rush her in any way, steadily waiting for her to feel ready. When she manages to get back to reality and crosses the door she doesn’t even bother putting her cool mask of politeness on. She has better things to worry about than the impression he may have of her. She signals him to follow her, and Skyhold suddenly seems a bit too closed to her. She needs open air and her trees back. She hugs herself, and the man waits some more before she’s ready to speak.

“Have you heard the details of today?” she starts evenly.

“I have,” he replies with a careful tone. She looks at his face, seeing him for the first time that day. He doesn’t seem to wear a mask either; worry and guilt are interwoven in his expression and clear for everyone to see. Is she that fragile that he feels the need to…? She steels herself, hardening her expression out of sheer spite. Her hands fall to her sides, and her voice is harder when she resumes talking. Before she does, Solas is wearing his mask of cold politeness again. Good.

“There is something strange about that situation. When I first saw the village, I thought darkspawn had attacked it. It reminded me of a memory you showed me of the Fifth Blight, but I couldn’t place it surely back then. I’d like to visit the girl’s memories with you in the Fade, to investigate what really happened. You have much more experience with this than I do. You might be able to spot something I’d miss.”

Solas looks her over and asks “You don’t wish to take care of yourself first?” She’s wearing servants clothes but she’s still far from clean.

She shakes her head “First thing in the morning, I want Cole to erase the memory of the attack from the kids’ minds. I don’t want them to live with it a second longer than they need to. I’ll take care of myself tomorrow. Hopefully I’m not too disgusting” She looks over herself.

“I will join you, Inquisitor,” he confirms with a nod. Cole appeared sometime during the Inquisitor’s little speech but waited for Solas to finish talking.

“I want to make her forget now.”

“Cole, please don’t. Wait for us to do this first,” begs the Inquisitor.

“But they hurt, and I am Compassion. My job is to make the hurt stop; you told me that,” his tone is an accusation thrown at both of them.

“Cole,” now Solas is talking, with a tone of authority, “the Inquisitor and I need to investigate those memories in the Fade, or the events of the village will repeat in other villages, and there will be much more hurt.” This seems to convince the spirit.

“Can I kill the people that made the hurt happen when we find them?”

“Of course,” say both elves at the same time.

Cole doesn’t even answer and disappears again. The Inquisitor quietly mutters, “Jinx,” touching her nose with her thumb as discreetly as she can. She doesn’t complete the ritual on Solas, who looks away from her. Whenever she did that, he would drag her into a kiss, in exchange for allowing her to do it, he would say. But that time is gone now.

“Shall we? If she’s not asleep yet, I’ll help her.” He talks coldly

“Can you also help me?” asks the Inquisitor without looking at him, a hint of shame in her voice. She doesn’t want to appear weak, especially with him.

“Of course,” he replies after a slight pause. She doesn’t look at him; she doesn’t want to see his mask or the feelings behind it.

When they enter the room, the girl is every bit as catatonic as before. Nonetheless, Nuria gestures for Solas to wait by the door. Giselle and Cole continue their work, even though one isn’t aware of the other. The Inquisitor kneels by the little girl and, with the most soothing voice she can muster, as gentle as a caress of wind on a hot summer day, she whispers, “I have a friend who can help you sleep. And when you wake up, I promise”—she struggles with emotion on that last word—“you will feel better. I’ll watch over you and your brother tonight. No one will hurt you.”

The little girl doesn’t respond. Nuria gestures for Giselle with her head, and the woman leaves. Solas quietly enters the room. He calmly recites his spell, casting a hand on the girl’s head, then forehead, and eyes. When his hand lowers further, the little girl is asleep. The Inquisitor sighs heavily in relief, letting her mask fall and horror fill her face.

“I can see the hurt. I can make you forget,” offers Cole beside her.

“Thank you, but if I do, I won’t be able to do my job. I appreciate the offer,” she pats the spirit’s cheek with tenderness before turning to Solas, her mask slipped back on her face.

“Could you teach me this spell during our next session?”

Solas nods. She rises and looks for a place where the two of them can sleep. She would love for her guest to lie down since this is no quick 30-minute nap exploration, but something that will likely take much more time. The Inquisitor’s bed is not small by any means, but the little boy has sprawled on it like a starfish in such a way that there’s no place for her and Solas to sleep. Seeing the boy sleeping like that makes her chuckle softly, however.

“The boy is too young; his mind has not evolved enough for us to see clear memories. His sister could assist us better in our research,” explains Solas. Lavellan nods; she was wondering about that exactly.

“His age, however, would not shelter him from the long-term effects of such a traumatizing event. He can forget, Cole.” She has no issue with him giving the order. Cole springs into action immediately, and when he’s done, the little boy sighs heavily in relief in his sleep.

“I was hoping to find room on the bed for you,” starts the Inquisitor, pointing vaguely over the bed, “but there’s no way you could comfortably sleep there. We’ll have to share the divan.” Without adding anything more, she sits on a corner of it, propping her head and body in a way that she won’t fall over during sleep. Solas sits beside her, extending a hand. She doesn’t take it but places her forefingers on his. She closes her eyes as Solas whispers his spell with a voice that tastes like velvet in her mouth, his hand hovering over her face. She can feel and smell him closer than he’s ever been since their breakup, but before this closeness can have any effect on her heavily burdened mind, she’s asleep.

SOLAS
Cole's voice was a fractured, all-seeing mirror, his words spinning truths. "They’re not real. Not real like me or her, but if she cries for them, it makes them real. And if they sing in their sleep like they’re real, are they real after all? They can’t be, or I’m like them."

Solas responded, his tone weary and burdened. "The Evanuris' crimes were greater and intentional. The situation with Corypheus is nothing compared to that. I have seen thousands of children like these, or with a worse fate. That’s why I created the Veil."

Cole's eyes flickered with an understanding beyond human comprehension. "But they might be real and this frightens you."

Solas's gaze shifted to the Inquisitor, as if she could absolve him of his sins. "I misjudged what would happen, but it was an accident," he repeated, a mantra of regret.

"It would be hard for her at first, but she would understand, she would help" Cole said, a line he had repeated so many times that Solas had ceased to respond. But this time, the old elf's resolve wavered.

"How could I? Even after all she has seen and done, she keeps her empathy and all that makes her beautiful spirit a true mark of goodness. Inflicting more pain and anguish on someone like her is a crime. What if the truth breaks her and she loses who she is? She deserves peace, a peace that allows for spirits like hers to soar and better the world." He raised her hand and kissed each finger with gentle brushes, then leaned his forehead on her hand, seeking her comforting touch.

"She is a child, but different from the shadows of this world, and any Elvhen I’ve met. Her existence must be a trick of my enemies. They could have built her spirit over millennia in the Fade and released it in a beautiful elven woman to make me lose my mind."

"But you searched the Fade and it’s not like this. She just is of this world. Like all the others" Cole murmured.

Solas stared at her for minutes that felt like an eternity, the weight of his thoughts pressing down on him. Finally, he announced, "I'm sleeping too, Cole."

He positioned himself as comfortably as he could on the divan and willed himself to sleep, trying to forget the turmoil of his waking thoughts.
-
INQUISITOR
She went looking for Solas, Curiosity tagging along as usual, Mystery observing her from afar. The little spirit had taken the form of a rabbit, though with deer horns, weirdly long legs, and hooves. The spirit couldn't decide what it wanted to be, it had told her the first time she saw it, and it never took the same form twice. She recognized it only because the spirit was invariably of an unnatural shade she had never seen outside of the Fade. Today, it was neon green.

“Where is he?” Curiosity asks every 5 seconds on the dot.

“You want him to swallow you whole. He could, his jaws are big enough for the entire world” promises Hunger. Nuria wills the spirit away. While waiting, she looked at the spirits of Desperation and Hunger huddled in her bedroom, attracted by the girl's grief.

“Mommy? Mommy?” Echoed a spirit of Desperation. It's going to be a long night.

Solas eventually reaches her.

“Oh, I thought there was an issue,” she said coolly.

“I have just encountered a spirit that wanted my attention,” he replied with a similar cool tone.

“You paint words with the same brush today!” Curiosity was delighted, circling around them happily as they discussed a strategy. It jumped up and down, changing some part of its body at least twice to try new ways to walk, prance, jump, or crawl around them. Solas proposed that they channel the little girl’s dreams from the day of the attack and then try to jump into the memory of someone in the village who might have seen more. He suggested they not split up in order to analyze each memory carefully.

“Darkspawn have the ability to transform the most horrendous acts into something mundane. If something too affecting comes up, step away from it.”

The Inquisitor scoffed. “Do not take me for weak.”

“I do not doubt your strength. Your survival as a Dreamer without formal training is remarkable in itself, a testament to your innate prowess. Since the Conclave, you have consistently pushed your limits, demonstrating both determination and insight. Your gentle spirit is a rare gift, one that has enriched the Inquisition and provided you with perspectives others might miss, myself included. Do not feel compelled to constantly exceed your limits if it is not required. There is wisdom in knowing when to temper one's efforts. True strength lies not only in relentless pursuit but also in the discernment to understand when to conserve one's energy. Embrace the moments where you can allow yourself to proceed at a measured pace, for there is no shame in acknowledging the need for such balance.”

She had no retort, but actually looked pensive for a while. She urged Curiosity to stay behind, promising to meet with it on her next sleep.

When they landed in the memory of the little girl, she was sleeping even there, meaning she wasn’t dreaming that night.

“I thought it was just right,” Solas explained. With both the Dreamers at work, the landscape quickly transformed into the panicked village. The dream was much more vivid than other memories Solas had shown her. Come to think of it, most of the memories they had explored together were of the dead. This one was clear as day, freshly minted from the girl's mind. She doesn’t make the connection to their dance in the Fade, focused on the task at hand.

The village was small and unassuming, nestled in the safety of its remote location. Yet there was an unmistakable order to its layout, a testament to the lives carefully built within its borders. At the heart of this place, the Inquisitor stood, her gaze drawn to a modest home that commanded the center of the village. It wasn’t grand, but the signs of its importance were clear. The family that lived here must have been well-regarded, their trade in jewelry evident from the scattered memories that flashed through the Inquisitor's mind.

A young girl stood at the door, her small frame silhouetted against the fading light. Her clothes, now stained and tattered, had once been of fine quality, woven with care and adorned with delicate details. The Inquisitor hadn’t noticed this at first, the dirt and grime disguising their craftsmanship. But now, in the vivid clarity of the memory, every thread and stitch spoke of a life once filled with comfort and love.

The girl’s eyes were wide with fear as she clutched a small toy, her gaze darting to the approaching cloud of darkness on the horizon. The sounds that accompanied it—terrifying, monstrous roars and distant shouts—seemed to grow louder with every passing second. Inside the home, her little brother lay in his cot, oblivious to the danger that crept closer. The girl hesitated, her tiny hands reaching out as if to protect him, but she was so small, too small to lift him. Panic surged through her as she turned back toward the door, just as it burst open.

Her mother appeared in the doorway, her beautiful face twisted with wild panic. Light green eyes, so much like the girl’s, flashed with desperate determination. She was a vision of elegance even in that moment of chaos, her round earrings—spirals of glittering gems—catching the light, matched by a necklace that mirrored the intricate design. The same necklace the girl now clutched tightly in her small hands.

Without a word, the mother scooped up the boy, her grip fierce and protective. With her free hand, she grabbed the girl, dragging her toward the waiting horse outside. The urgency in her movements left no room for hesitation. But before she could mount, a young man, face twisted in rage, appeared out of nowhere. His shout was the only warning before he struck the mother hard across the face, sending her reeling. The children tumbled from the horse, and the mother barely caught them before they hit the ground. The man fled, his figure disappearing into the chaos now consuming the village.

The girl’s memory was a swirl of confusion and terror as she looked around. The once peaceful village was now a scene of horror—people running, screaming, the sounds of battle mixing with the guttural cries of darkspawn. The mother’s grip tightened as she pulled the children back to their feet, forcing them to run. The stable was close, their only hope. But when they reached it, the stables were empty, the horses gone.

The mother’s desperation reached a new peak. Her eyes darted around the stable, landing on a large container of manure. The idea came to her in an instant, and in the girl’s memory, she seemed to glow with a strange, tragic brightness. She set the boy down gently and then knelt before the girl, her hands trembling as she held her face, pressing fervent kisses to her forehead. Tears streaked her cheeks as she opened the container and tipped it, the foul contents spilling out to reveal a hiding place.

She lifted the children, one by one, into the barrel. The girl whimpered, the smell and the fear almost too much to bear, but the mother’s voice was soft and steady as she made her promise.

“Take care of your brother,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Always. And remember, I love you both.”

The girl’s small hands grasped the necklace as the mother yanked it from her own neck, the jewels glinting in the dim light before she tucked it carefully into the girl’s dress. The darkness outside grew closer, more oppressive. The mother’s final words were a desperate plea.

“Be quiet and wait. I’ll find a horse.”

Then she was gone, swallowed by the darkness that had descended upon them. The lid of the barrel closed, plunging the children into blackness. The smell was overwhelming, the air thick and rancid, but the girl didn’t dare make a sound. Her brother whimpered beside her, but she held him close, her small body curled around his, as the world outside turned into a living hell.

And in that darkness, the monsters waited, just beyond the edge of the barrel, ready to devour them if they made a single noise.

“We should jump to the memory of the man who stole the horse,” Nuria found herself saying. “He might have had a better view of the surroundings and the attackers.” She looked at Solas. “How do I do it?”

They spent time with Solas teaching her how to focus her presence into the Fade to jump from one set of eyes to the next. It didn’t involve formulas or gestures like spells outside the Fade, but a shift of will that was even more complicated to achieve, at least for her. It sounded like the most natural thing in the world for him.

“The same technique is valid for animals and spirits, but it’s going to be more challenging. It’s easier to see with the eyes of creatures that are similar to your form.” She nodded, and they went back to the moment they saw the man disappear from the girl’s memory. She started exploring with the technique that Solas taught her. She felt the Fade shifting around her, removing her from the girl’s memory to jump to the man’s. The memory was clear. He had survived. That filled her with blind rage for a few seconds, and the Fade showed it as waves in the fabric of that reality. She took a few deep breaths to calm herself. Solas was at her side already.

They moved with the man, feeling the dread of what he had done, the horror of the situation, and how much he just wanted to survive. He was looking for a way out, trying to find free roads if he could, but on two occasions, he just ran over other villagers without a second thought. A few of them cursed, saying his name: “Cedric Ostan.” The Inquisitor wrote the name in the air with a finger, and the letters came to life like quicksilver thread. She impressed them on the air with her free hand, pushing them out of that place. She had a library of sorts where she stored important bits of dreams, something that, of course, Solas had taught her. No scrap of knowledge should go to waste.

“We’ll find him, interrogate him, and then release him to the proper authorities,” she said dryly.

They kept observing the man as he ran away from danger, refusing to help any of the people begging him to take their kids or themselves to safety. The Inquisitor scoffed in disgust. The man managed to leave the village, and as he did, he looked at the troops. They looked fearsome in his eyes, but there it was: Darkspawn, seemingly coming from nowhere, flanked by the cultists. How and why would humanoids and Darkspawn collaborate other then Corypheus?

“Could it be connected to the situation in Kirkwall?” she asked.

“Corypheus controls Darkspawn, but this group seems unlike others we have encountered in our journeys. They may be followers of a new kind. They may have had a mission to complete in that village.”

“It seems likely, but why perform a blood circle and ritual?”

“The Darkspawn have their own forms of worship. Barring that, sport.”

The Inquisitor shivered but remained otherwise still, observing.

“I don’t see anyone striking me as their leader, but this man is fleeing. Maybe the leader left before the beginning of the attack. I suppose we shouldn’t jump into Darkspawn memories.”

“Unless your wish is to become tainted.”

“We can follow this fool and find out later where he hid. I saw a guard during his escape. Should we try him?”

Solas agrees and after a short while, they’re in the guard’s memory, seeing with his eyes as he goes into the direction of the enemy, heart pounding in his ears, one purpose in his mind: protecting the village, and his family. He finds the other guards at the entrance of the village, facing down the horde. They see it better from his memory. There are Genlocks but mainly Hurlocks, cultists. And all their eyes are weirdly completely purple, but show no other signs of disarray. They seem to talk and move like a normal human would.

“They didn’t have purple eyes when we met them,” she said, unable to contain her surprise. She moved closer to the cultists, searching for other signs of corruption. There were none, except that when the battle began, they wielded fiery swords. The Inquisitor and Solas exchanged glances, both startled by the revelation. The guards had no hope of success. Some began fleeing the moment magic entered the fray, but they could only watch helplessly as the slaughter turned, as Solas had suggested, into a form of sport. The guard they were following had his weapon arm cleanly severed by a Hurlock, left to die or to become part of the Darkspawn’s “decorations.” The memory grew blurrier.

“We should leave this memory,” Solas warned. “Violent group deaths such as these attract spirits of desperation, fear, and rage.” She nodded. Solas made everything disappear with a mere thought, whereas she needed to gesture widely, commanding the Fade like a singer commanding their voice.

“There’s another thing I’d like to show you when we wake—a journal entry Dorian made about the Darkspawn’s ritual. Should we try to see if someone witnessed it?”

“That could be too much for tonight, Inquisitor. I can do the remaining research if you’d prefer to retire.”

“No,” she said firmly, shaping the Fade again. They were now in the mother’s memory, just after she had left her children. The massacre had already begun. The woman had no real hope of finding a horse. She had no chance. The only thing she could do was to get as far away from her children as possible, hoping they weren’t found and that help would arrive soon. To her surprise, the memory was particularly vivid. She was still alive. How? The woman wandered the streets as the massacre reached the village, witnessing fleeting scenes of horror with mounting fear—Hurlocks throwing innocents into the air to skewer them, an old man being skinned. She kept running and, in her flight, caught a glimpse of the ritual.

“There!” The scene was one of the crudest and most cruel the Inquisitor had ever seen. The circle was being made with the blood gushing from a middle-aged man being dragged across the ground while convulsing. Another screaming man was being erected on a post, still relatively unharmed. When they first encountered the scene, she hadn’t noticed the symbol, it was charred. But now, she remembered Josephine teaching her about it.

“Mafarath’s symbol? Why?” she asked, feeling herself being dragged back into the woman’s memory. She encountered a sneering Hurlock. She froze. The Darkspawn didn’t go for the kill but grabbed the woman by the collar and began dragging her away. She struggled, trying to free herself, and saw more women being dragged away. The Darkspawn responded by hitting her head with its own. The woman fainted as she was dragged out of the village.

“We need to leave immediately,” Solas announced, and the Fade shifted back to the Inquisitor’s room. No scattered carvings, no children—just her room at dawn. She looked around.

“Why are we here? Why were they performing a ritual for Mafarath, and where were they taking those women?”

“There seems to be a mockery of human traditions among the Darkspawn. I think we’ve encountered something akin to that. I will consult Dorian’s journals and let you know about my findings.”

“And the women?”

There was a long pause, stretching into silence.

“Dawn is coming. We should go before the children wake up.”

“Are you sheltering me?” she asked dryly, meeting Solas’s gaze. He remained a cold statue, offering no reply. Her anger flared, especially after the day she had just experienced.

“I’ve experienced battle and strife, led the Inquisition without hesitation. I’ve protected myself from demons my whole life. I didn’t need you to shelter me. How many things do you keep hiding from me?” Her rage was building, shaping the bare Fade around her. Waves of energy rippled through the room. She had learned to control her emotions seeping through the Fade, but she was too angry now to keep that self control in check.

“You came to me seeking wonder and knowledge that had been denied to you. You had to resort to caging yourself every time you entered the Fade to protect yourself. I wanted to show you the beauty of it and of your abilities. The Fade contains all. There was no need to drag you through a tour of horror. I had planned to teach you this side eventually.”

“Give me the truth,” she demanded. The words “I’m not weak” echoed from a much younger voice, not her own. Suddenly, the village was replaced by a cave. A little girl with silken black hair and long ears was on the ground, staring up at a Dalish Keeper holding a whip threateningly.

In a flash, the memory was erased. Instead of nothingness or her room, the scene shifted to a pristine white room stained with blood. A much younger Solas was bound in chains, surrounded by torturer’s instruments.
“You’re weak,” said a figure turned around in Ancient Elvhen.

Then they were back in the Inquisitor’s room. Silence hung heavily between them, only broken by the chirping of birds and the rustling of the morning wind.

“How do Darkspawn reproduce?” Solas asked, breaking the silence. The Inquisitor was taken aback by the question. After a moment’s thought, she replied, “I don’t know.”

Solas nodded. “This is a memory from the Fifth Blight that might clarify things. It’s a poem.” A parchment appeared, hovering in front of the Inquisitor. When she opened it, a broken voice began reciting the words on the paper.

First day, they come and catch everyone.
Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat.
Third day, the men are all gnawed on again.
Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate.
Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn.
Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams.
Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew.
Eighth day, we hated as she is violated.
Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin.
Now she does feast, as she's become the beast.
Now you lay and wait, for their screams will haunt you in your dreams.

The Inquisitor was stunned by the revelation. Who wouldn’t be? As the picture became clearer, her shock reverberated through the Fade, sending waves of her emotion rippling across the landscape.

“They came out to get women for… that? The mother of those kids…” Her voice faltered, unable to complete the sentence.

“That’s why I urged us out of her memories,” Solas replied, his tone carrying a cool, controlled fury beneath his mask of politeness. “If she’s lucky, she’ll die quickly. If not, she’ll become a brood mother—a Hurlock spawning Darkspawn. Is that sufficient?”

His eyes were so cold that they seemed to burn. The Inquisitor found it difficult to meet his gaze.

“Thank you for showing me,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She hesitated, then added, “I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to…”

Solas’s eyes remained as icy as ever. The intensity of her emotions stirred the Fade, causing waves and ripples to churn around them. In the darkness, a roaring voice echoed, young but filled with hunger and violence:

“I’ll have you, you can’t hide from me.”

The voice jolted the Inquisitor awake.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR
Her heart raced uncomfortably against her chest. The children slept soundly on the bed, while Cole stood vigilant at the end of it.

“I can make you forget that,” Cole offered quietly.

The Inquisitor changed the subject abruptly. “The girl can forget now.”

As she spoke, she noticed Solas slumped against her, his head resting on her shoulder, their fingers intertwined. The sight sent her heart pounding once more. She could smell the faint odor of paint thinner, parchment and pine, his breath on her skin. He always slept like this, quietly, deeply, and when they could, wrapped around each other. And despite it all, it was comforting. It had been a very difficult day, but feeling the warmth of the man she so desperately loved next to her made the sorrow and anxiety melt. She relaxed and rested her head on his, just enjoying this simple touch until it lasted.

Cole had disappeared, leaving them alone. Solas began to stir, his eyelashes brushing against her skin as he woke. He was still for a moment, then took a deep breath, nuzzling against her neck just slightly before straightening up. His hand remained in hers, the cold fury from the dream now gone. Their eyes met, but his expression was unreadable, shrouded in hesitation. It made her wonder what he saw after she had woken up.

“I didn’t,” he said softly, sensing her unspoken question. “I went back to the village to look for more clues.”

“Thank you,” she replied, her voice breathless, her gaze shifting to their intertwined fingers. She looked up at him, struggling with her feelings. They stared at each other in that close, intimate moment. He studied her with a careful gaze, but asked no questions. They had seen something of each other they didn’t mean to be seen. She was about to apologize, but he spoke first.

“You’re not weak,” he said firmly, his tone absolute. His gaze held hers for another moment, and she saw the veneer of his mask momentarily slip away. Then, he quickly stood and released her hand, his eyes averting as he moved toward the door. She felt so cold without him, and wondered if he felt the same.
-
The Inquisitor yawned as she absorbed the events of the morning. When the children woke up she learned their names through the girl: Mina and Henry. Mina and Henry were coping as best as they could, but Henry's cries for his mother echoed painfully. The presence of Mother Giselle helped with the immediate care, and the children were to stay with the Chantry members in Skyhold until a more permanent solution could be found. Kieran would likely enjoy the company.

After a long and needed bath—one that took longer than expected to wash away the lingering grime and stench—the Inquisitor finally felt clean, though her mind was still a whirlwind. She needed to focus, and with Josephine orchestrating plans for the charity auction, the council debating the Inquisition's next steps, and agents dispatched to follow up on leads, there was no shortage of tasks.
Starved by noon, she decided to sneak a sandwich from the kitchen and retreat to Dorian’s favorite spot: the library above Solas’ rotunda.He wasn’t in his usual spot, but Nuria saw scattered papers indicating he was busy with his research on Dorian’s notes. Climbing the stairs, she found Dorian engrossed in a book, tracing glyphs in the air. Clearing her throat, she caught his attention.
Dorian’s face lit up with a dramatic smile as he tossed his book aside with an exaggerated flourish. The ribbon wrapped around it neatly, and the book landed softly on a nearby table. He used a touch of magic to mask his theatrical flair, a quirk she found endearing. With a graceful sweep, he moved toward her and enveloped her in a warm, comforting hug. When he finally pulled back, he looked openly concerned.

“How are you holding up, my friend?” he asked, his voice filled with genuine worry.

“Badly,” she admitted, tightening the hug for a few moments longer.

“Tell me what I’ve missed. You look like you’ve barely slept.”

For the next fifteen minutes, she recounted the events since their last meeting, carefully sidestepping the more intense memories her emotions had stirred up.

“You never seem to have a dull day, do you?” Dorian commented, his tone a blend of amusement and sympathy.

“It would be so boring otherwise. No tragedy, no strife? What would Varric write about?”

“He’d have to sell himself,” Dorian agreed with a grin.

She sank into a cushion, her snow-colored hair cascading around her as she tried to relax. Her robes, though simple and loose, were still elegantly embroidered, a nod to the fashion sense of the Inquisition’s more style-conscious members that chose her clothing. After a few moments she started taking a look at the notes Dorian took yesterday, scattered on the coffee table in front of her. Dorian’s gaze shifted between the notes she was reviewing and her dark undereye circles.

“Solas stayed in your room yesterday?” Dorian asked, his tone curious.

The Inquisitor nodded absently, her attention still focused on the glyphs in the notes.

“I could take these to Thom. He might have some insight, even if he’s not a Warden.”

“Do you still love him?” Dorian’s question was unexpectedly direct.

She froze, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. “Dorian, we have more pressing matters to discuss.”

He remained persistent, his gaze unyielding. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” he said with a grin.

She set the journal down on the coffee table and sighed deeply, propping her elbows on her knees and burying her face in her hands.

“Yes,” she admitted quietly.

“That’s foolish,” Dorian said, his tone both teasing and serious.

“I know,” she replied, her voice muffled. “It’s only been a few weeks. It’s not like I can just stop loving him.”

“You can!” Dorian countered. “Just find a soldier with strong muscles to make you see stars. That usually does the trick for me.” He gave her a playful shove.

“I don’t work like that,” she said, raising her head to meet his gaze. “I need to be in love with someone to even think of that.”

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “You don’t have to think about it, just enjoy the muscles.”

“The thought of anyone else touching even one of my shoulders with that intention sends a shiver down my spine,” she confessed.

Dorian looked intrigued. “Explain.”

“It’s like those mimes in Val Royeaux,” she said. “If you put a coin in their hat, you get a performance. I’m the same way. If there’s no love in my heart, my body won’t respond.”

“For me, it’s quite the opposite,” Dorian chuckled. “The performance comes first. So it’s love or nothing?” he asked with a dramatic flourish

“Exactly.”

“Then you must cherish every lover you’ve had,” Dorian teased.

The Inquisitor blushed furiously. “There… there have been none.”

Dorian’s eyes widened in shock. “Vishante Kaffas, you’re a virgin.”

“I am.”

“The Inquisition is led by a virgin?” he exclaimed, his voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.

“You make it sound like something scandalous,” she replied, her cheeks flushing even brighter.

“Actually, if Giselle knew, she’d probably name you the New Virgin Bride of the Maker.”

Nuria rolled her eyes and grabbed a cushion to hide her face.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of that,” Dorian said gently. “But it does explain a lot about you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, peeking out from behind the cushion.

“Maybe it’s the white hair, but sometimes you look almost too ethereal. Your obsession with helping others doesn’t help either. I heard from Josephine about the auction. If you keep this up, you’ll end up with no money. Who’s going to take care of you when you’re old, frail, and poor?”

She gave him a mischievous smile and threw a pillow at him, hitting him squarely in the face. “You, of course. And Josephine. I’ll always be hopping between your mansions.”

“Vishante Kaffas,” Dorian muttered, shaking his head with a grin.

“I know you’ll take care of me,” she said with a confident grin.

“Am I that predictable?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“You’re just a good friend,” she replied seriously. Dorian’s eyes softened, and he leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.

“In all seriousness, after the Inquisition, I could just travel, or hide in a hole. If I get to become old, that’s the real question.” She absentmindedly rubbed the Anchor, lost in thought.

Dorian’s mischievous grin returned. “We’re not finished.”

“Please,” she sighed, bracing herself for more teasing.

“If I have to take care of you in your frail years, the least you can do is spill some gossip! So you and Solas have never...?”

“No,” she cut him off, blushing furiously.

“But you traveled alone with him, and he sneaked into your quarters so often that I doubt he remembers the way to his own. We’ve all assumed—”

“Nothing happened,” she interrupted firmly, her cheeks still burning.

Dorian raised an eyebrow. “But you must have had some moments. All those long nights in close quarters?”

She buried her face in another cushion, mortified. Dorian pressed on.

“Why would he come to your quarters then?”

“We would dream together in the Fade and…I liked it. I think he did, too”

Dorian tilted his head, taking a moment to respond “It feels even more intimate like this” he admits “He just wanted to be close to you, even though he’s a man with experience”

“How do you know?” Nuria asked, eyes wide

Dorian leaned back, a mischievous grin returning on his delighted face “Solas may seem all ancient wisdom and stoicism, but that man has the look of someone who knows what he's doing. Plus, I saw him refuse one of the servants after I first moved into Skyhold, and…there was a certain finesse in the way he handled it”

“What? He never told me about that” She sat upright

“Trust me, I doubt he even remembers her by now. He only had eyes for you. But why didn’t he act?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes when things got intense, he had a look in his eyes, and I thought that maybe…but then he would get this guilty, anguished look and back off. It never went beyond that.”

“Oh, I saw that look when he came to the tavern, after a few drinks, and watched you dancing,” Dorian said with a smirk.

“Dorian!” She could hardly keep up with his teasing.

“It must have been maddening for him. Did you sleep…close?”

“Yes” she says tentatively

“The poor man” Dorian says emphatically, shaking his head. He exhaled, turning serious again

“Why wouldn’t he? Does he have a family?” Dorian added carefully

“No,” she replied too quickly. She corrected herself. “I don’t believe so.”

“Maybe it’s the age gap then.”

“I don’t think so. He has a past that plagues him, and he chose his secrets over me. That’s all.”

They fell into a contemplative silence before Dorian finally broke it. “I have asked for love advice from a virgin.”

She sat up, a bit offended. “It worked though, didn’t it? I know people.”

Dorian nodded, a thoughtful look on his face. “Bull always says you’d make a great Ben-Hassrath if you didn’t have such a big heart.”

“You two talk about me?”

“Of course, my dear. We adore you.” He pinched her cheek affectionately.

“In all seriousness though, you should give Cullen a chance to sweep you off your feet. You’re the only one who would choose the stuck-up bald elf over the handsome muscly commander.”

She rolls her eyes “Cullen doesn’t see me that way.”

“Oh, darling, but he does. You’re too blind to see it. Come to think of it, you’ve dodged every flirting attempt any diplomat has ever made on you. Do you just not nocite unless it’s him?”

“Dorian, it’s not like there’s a line.”

“You’re adorable.” He pinched her cheek again. “But seriously, just try to see Cullen in that light. He would do anything to make you happy. Repeat after me: I should let Cullen just throw me on a bed and—”

“I’m never going to repeat that.”

“Of course, you’re too pure. How about: I should let Cullen…kiss me passionately?”

“Why would I repeat that?”

“So that your brain will start working on that thought and maybe push Solas out. Let your subconscious work”

She snorts “If I do it, do you promise never to bring this up again?”

“I can do three days.”

“Two weeks.”

“One week.”

“Deal.” They shook on it, and the Inquisitor took a deep breath before declaring with dramatic flair.

“I should let Cullen kiss me passionately.”

Of course, at that exact moment, Cullen walked into view, right behind her.

-
Sometimes, fate seems to conspire against you, and sometimes that misfortune manifests as a Tevinter mage with a penchant for mischief.

The Inquisitor felt the heat rise in her cheeks, a deep crimson that matched Cullen’s own flushed complexion. The awkwardness of the moment was palpable, intensified by Dorian’s barely concealed amusement. He chuckled, savoring the scene.

“I do have a knack for creating memorable moments,” Dorian said, his grin widening. He stood up and gave Cullen a playful pat on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you two to sort things out.” As he made his way out, he cast a cheeky wink in the Inquisitor’s direction, his mischief evident.

The Inquisitor, her face still burning, hesitated for a moment before looking back at Cullen. She saw him raise a hand, signaling a moment of patience.

“I wanted to speak with you,” he said, his voice gentle yet firm. “Walk with me?”
-
CULLEN
The crisp air of Skyhold’s walls was filled with an awkward silence as the Inquisitor and Cullen stood side by side. The two had been walking in uneasy silence, their words stumbling over each other in a dance of embarrassment and hesitation. The Inquisitor finally gathered enough courage to break the silence, her gaze fixed on the ground as she spoke to Cullen’s chest, avoiding eye contact.
“I’m sorry,” she began, her voice barely above a whisper. “It’s just Dorian making fun of me.”

Cullen’s heart skipped a beat at her apology. He had expected nothing of the sort. Yet, her words gave him a newfound resolve. If they were about to embark on a mission and pretend to be someone else in Kirkwall, he needed to express his feelings before they had to slip back into their roles.

After a brief pause, Cullen mustered his courage and pulled out a small envelope, holding it out to her with a mix of hope and trepidation. “It’s for you. Please open it.”

The Inquisitor took the envelope, and took it curiously, repeating apologies. With a questioning glance at Cullen, she carefully opened it, revealing a delicate necklace. Her breath caught in her throat as she recognized it immediately. It was an ancient elvhen necklace, its intricately woven strands of metal forming a delicate spiral with a black gem at its center.

“I thought I lost it,” she said, her voice laced with disbelief. “How?”

Cullen’s gaze softened. “When we found you after the explosion at the Conclave, you were badly injured. The necklace was broken and stuck in your armor. It was placed with your belongings for investigation. Cassandra meant to return them to you once your name was cleared, but she wanted to restore this first. I wanted to repair it and give it to you, but this metal is deceptively hard to work with. It took Dagna ages to figure it out.”

She looked up at Cullen, a tear escaping her eye as she touched the necklace gently, as if it might disappear at any moment. “Thank you, Cullen,” she whispered, pressing her lips to the gem. When she met his eyes again, her gaze was filled with gratitude and emotion. “My family says this has been passed down through generations since before the fall of Arlathan. Whenever it’s lost or stolen, it always finds its way back to us. But I thought...”

Her voice faltered as she gave him a quick hug, retreating to look into his eyes with deep sincerity. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

Cullen took a deep breath, his nerves on edge as he continued. “There’s another reason I’m giving this to you.” He slowly knelt, reciting with a trembling voice.

“From me to you, offering my heart to your hands to do with it what you will.”

The Inquisitor’s eyes widened in recognition of the formula: it’s a Dalish courting ritual. She looked at Cullen with a mixture of confusion and surprise. “Cullen? What are you doing?”

“I found it in a book,” Cullen explained, his face flushed with both nervousness and hope. “When a Dalish man wants to court a woman from another clan, he gives her a gift, kneels, and says those words. Is it…correct?”

She nodded, her cheeks reddening. Cullen offered a hesitant smile, trying to appear confident despite his evident insecurity.

“I have been in love with you for a long time,” he confessed, his voice wavering. He had a speech. But now he just blurts out the truth “And I wish for one day to make you my wife and make you happy. I know your heart still belongs to Solas, but I’m asking for a chance to change your mind.” He took her free hand in his and placed a delicate kiss on the back of it. His eyes were full of earnest affection as he continued, “I know it’s too much right now, but I won’t hide my feelings for you anymore. One day, I hope you’ll ask me to kiss you passionately, and I will. Until then, I will wait, but…I won’t be silent anymore”

The Inquisitor was stunned, her face a canvas of surprise and embarrassment. Cullen’s heart raced, unsure of what to make of her reaction. He added softly, “Just think about it for now, please.” He gently released her hand and stood up, taking a step back.

She followed his movements, her face still flushed. Cullen’s heart sank as her silence stretched on, but he waited, hopeful.

“Please speak,” Cullen prompted gently.

It took her a moment to find her voice. “Cullen, I had no idea… even at Haven?”

He nodded, a trace of sadness in his eyes. “I tried to hide it, but yes.”

She placed the hand he had kissed on her cheek, her voice trembling. “I didn’t know, and I treated you like a friend. I… I’m very touchy with my friends.”

“I know,” Cullen said softly.

“That must have been difficult for you,” she continued, her voice filled with guilt. “I’m sorry” she added sincerely.

“No,” he said, shaking her head. “You didn’t know, and you treat everyone with such affection and empathy. It’s one of the things that made me fall for you.”

Her blush deepened, a shade of red enhanced by her pale skin. She looked down, troubled. “But I love Solas. I don’t know if or when I’ll stop—”

“I know,” Cullen said, his fingers gently lifting her chin. “I’m not asking for your love right now. I just wanted you to know my feelings for you. I hope that now you’ll see me not just as a friend. I’ll wait. I’ll show you that I can make you happy.” He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head, then took a step back.

She remained silent, her expression a mix of confusion and contemplation. Cullen felt a pang of worry but held onto hope.

“The necklace,” she said, finally breaking the silence. “If I’m unable to accept you, I should return it.”

“No,” Cullen said firmly. “It’s yours. Keep it. I should have thought of another gift. I promise I’ll give you another one.” His voice was tinged with a mix of determination and vulnerability.

“There’s no need” she replied. She wasn’t going to accept his feelings?

“Do you—” he hesitated, searching for the right words. “Do you think you could ever love me?”

The question left her stunned. She looked down at the necklace in her hands, her fingers twisting the delicate strands. It took her some time to reply

“I…I’m not sure, I suppose…I think so,” she said finally, her voice soft and uncertain. “You’re kind and brave. You care about others and fight for what you believe in. You’re someone I care deeply about.” She met his gaze with anguish. “But right now, it seems impossible for me to—”

“I understand,” Cullen interrupted gently. “I pushed too hard. I didn’t mean to. I’ll leave you to your thoughts.”

He turned to leave, his own thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and hope. As he walked away, he couldn’t help but glance back, holding onto the fragile hope that one day, his feelings would be returned.

SOLAS

Solas was in the War Room, deep in thought, his mind occupied by the Inquisitor. He had observed her from afar, noting how she continued to put others before herself. The tales he overheard from the rotunda spoke volumes—she had provided refuge for innocent children, planned to establish an orphanage despite resistance from the council, a pregnant servant had been given time off and money to make up for her wages, she had escorted a group of refugees to a safe harbor after they were attacked by bandits of the road. The Inquisition flourished with her little acts of kindness that knew no bounds, no rank. Her divine reputation, despite her best efforts to, was growing. Some clerics claimed that dreams revealed her as the Maker’s New Bride. Her efforts to help all contrasted sharply with his own approach to power and responsibility. “This is a unique chance for an elf to make the world better” she had told him once, back at Haven, mixing potions to heal the same people who still called her a heathen.

Solas pondered whether he would have chosen another path had he been in her shoes. Or if she would be able to show him another path than the one he decided to walk. The idea of sharing his reality with her seemed impossible, and he questioned whether it was pride or a deeply rooted fear of rejection that fueled his choice to not tell her the truth. He had thrown himself into work, hoping to drown out these turbulent thoughts.

His research into Dorian’s notes had confirmed his suspicions: the glyphs used by the Darkspawn were a corrupted version of ancient Elvhen symbols associated with Elgar’nan’s most devoted followers. These symbols, once used to empower Elgar’nan, had resurfaced in Blight-era records. Solas speculated that Elgar'nan and Corypheus might be working together, which necessitated an urgent journey to Kirkwall. The elements he couldn’t explain were the clean shaven cultists they had thought. He meticulously prepared his notes, deciding what to reveal and what to conceal, weighing each detail to steer the conversation in his favor. The only distraction that morning has been Sera replacing his water with tea, and putting a lizard in his desk, again. He was supposed to meet the Inquisitor and Dorian to discuss the situation, but they were late.

-
The Inquisitor entered the War Room blushing and decidedly late, a rare occurrence for her. Solas noticed an elegant elvhen necklace she wore—a piece from his homeland—catching the light. The dormant magic within the black gem intrigued him, but his attention was drawn back to her increasingly red face. Dorian followed her, giggling.

Before Dorian could make a remark about the necklace, the Inquisitor spoke with a hint of authority. “Dorian, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but we need to focus on the matter at hand. We’ll discuss this later.” Dorian’s protest was cut short as he was shushed with a quick thump. The Inquisitor’s expression hardened into her familiar mask of cool professionalism as she addressed Solas.

“Any progress?
”
Solas nodded. “The findings have been intriguing. I have reason to believe that the Darkspawn you have encountered were not influenced by Corypheus, but by another ancient power.”

“How did you come to that conclusion?” the Inquisitor asked, her curiosity piqued.

“The glyphs used by the Darkspawn share many similarities with ancient runes I encountered during my explorations, used by worshippers of Elgar’nan” he explained, choosing his words carefully.

“Are you suggesting this has a connection to what’s happening in Kirkwall?”

“It’s possible. Ancient Elvhen worship was present when Hawke explored the Deep Roads. There may be an ancient temple to the Elvhen gods beneath Kirkwall or nearby. The timing of the Meredith statue’s disappearance suggests a potential distraction. If attacks increase elsewhere, question why they’re happening only now.”

“Why kidnap those women?” the Inquisitor pressed.

“Darkspawn thrive in numbers, and Brood Mothers are…challenging to create and maintain, due to the extreme process of their creation and their…mission. They may be traveling across Thedas or simply capitalizing on opportunities,” Solas said.

The Inquisitor’s posture stiffened slightly, a subtle shift that only someone observant like Solas would notice. Dorian remained oblivious.

The Inquisitor quickly shifted her expression and took charge. “We need to send Varric away tomorrow to prepare his people for our arrival. We’re ready. Solas, you’ll depart in three days with a group of soldiers. We’ll pretend to be following the red herring, your true mission is to investigate the outskirts of Kirkwall. Leliana has promising leads; use them and communicate reports and any danger via the Fade. Be precise and timely.”

Solas nodded. “And you, Inquisitor?”

“We’ll fake an assassination attempt and say I was poisoned, needing time to recover. There’s a new servant that resembles me, we’ll use her as my body double. I’ll travel disguised with Cullen, meeting an agent in the alienage. Dorian will join us later”

“I see” Solas’s voice, though controlled, carried a hint of repressed frustration. He already knew that they would be separated but he hoped that she would still change her mind.
“Any concerns, Solas?” Dorian’s voice was laced with feigned innocence.

“No,” Solas replied evenly.

“Having issues with the plan?” Dorian pressed, but the Inquisitor cut him off.

“Dorian, enough. We’re here to discuss critical matters. If you wish to indulge in petty provocations, do it on your own time and not at my expense. Are there any questions about the mission?”
Both men fell silent.

“Good. Dorian, you’re dismissed. I need to focus on my Fade magic training now. We’ll talk later.”

Dorian looked chastened and left quietly. The Inquisitor turned to Solas with a hint of apology in her eyes. “Forgive him. Since our split, he’s taken to showing his loyalty through petty behavior. I’ll talk to him again. Shall we continue where we left off? I’d like to review communication techniques and the memory transfer method you used before. I don’t want to make mistakes during the mission.”
Solas was taken aback by her decisive use of authority and her detailed plans given the circumstances. They started their lesson with relative ease, but Solas struggled with questions. Why was she flushed when she arrived? Where did that necklace come from?

Later, during dinner with the inner circle, Solas noticed Nuria blush as Cullen joined her. Cullen’s demeanor was confident and relaxed, a stark contrast to his usual shyness. Solas’s jealousy and frustration grew as he observed the two of them together, their closeness a sharp reminder of what his choices had started.

He ate quickly, his mind preoccupied with thoughts of Nuria and Cullen. As soon as he could, he excused himself, claiming work needed his attention. His focus was uneven, his thoughts a turbulent mix of longing and frustration. Desperate for answers, he decided to spy on her dreams, hoping to uncover what had transpired between them. It was an unfair and selfish decision, driven by jealousy and uncertainty, but he couldn’t bear the uncertainty any longer.

The next day is the day the assassination attempt actually happens

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR
The day began with a sense of deceptive normalcy. Varric’s departure was orchestrated with the finesse of a master tactician. To the public, it was presented as a voluntary exit, a necessity born from his influential role in Kirkwall, pressing personal matters, and a dislike for the Inquisition. Leliana’s whispers had subtly influenced the politicians, planting the idea that freeing Varric from his duties was their own brilliant stroke of genius. Josephine had put up a token resistance, but it was part of the act. As Varric left, the Inquisitor felt a familiar rush of excitement and apprehension. It was a new chapter, and that always came with its share of risks, but something about this felt different—foreboding, perhaps, though she tried to push that instinct aside. Her gut had not been reliable in recent weeks.

The day was spent in a blur of tasks and interactions. She visited the children who had taken to Skyhold with surprising speed, bonding quickly with Kieran, much to Morrigan’s barely concealed delight. Even Henry had grown fond of Kieran, calling him “Caw Caw.” The sight of them together filled her with hope and warmth. She had been able to do something for them, to really help them.
Next, she turned her attention to the orphanage project, a subject that threatened to spark yet another pointless argument with Josephine. Determined to get her way, she took Josephine’s hands in hers, her gaze steady and earnest.

“Josephine, I know you want what’s best for me, and I’m truly grateful for all you’ve done. Your guidance has been invaluable. Before you came into my life, I was just a Dalish First who knew little about human or dwarven society, or even that 9 forks could ever be considered a necessity,” she said, a shared smile passing between them as they remembered the earlier days of her diplomatic learning. Flattery worked on Josephine.

“But I don’t need material things. Not more than these and countless other children need a chance at life.”

Josephine’s brow furrowed, her professional composure slipping slightly. “But they will call you weak for using your own funds.”

“They can say what they want,” the Inquisitor replied with quiet resolve. “We don’t act based on others' judgments but on who we are. We must lead by example. If we’re lucky, others will follow. Even if we don’t see the change in our lifetimes, we plant the seeds and nurture them.”

She sighs and asks “This is something we don’t share with outsiders, but have you ever heard of Dalish agriculture?”

Josephine shook her head in disbelief. “I didn’t realize that your people practiced agriculture. I always thought your nomadic lifestyle precluded it.”

“We do. We’re secretive about it, or we would surely see everything stolen. We’re particularly fond of olives. They’re resilient and require little care, and their fruits are versatile. A tribe can return to the same spot each year, finding the olives that have matured in their absence, but it takes three generations for them to go from sapling to fruit-bearing plant. We plant not for ourselves but for those who come after us. This is how I was raised.”

Josephine listened intently, a newfound understanding in her eyes. “I won’t share this knowledge with anyone.”

“Thank you,” the Inquisitor said, releasing her friend’s hands with a gentle squeeze. “So, you see why I don’t see any problem with using my personal funds. I can live without luxuries. I actually prefer it. Please, make sure the event is organized before I leave. Besides, we can spin the tale talking about generosity and pointing out that if I can make a large donation, it means that I have the money for it.”

Just as Josephine opened her mouth to respond, a messenger knocked on the door, delivering a new set of urgent matters. The Inquisitor took this as her cue and departed before Josephine could voice any further objections.

As she walked away, she felt a strange mixture of relief and apprehension. She had managed to press her point, but the weight of her responsibilities and the uncertainty of the coming journey lingered in the back of her mind. Her head was throbbing with unreleased stress. She needed to see Leliana. Her head was throbbing with duties and thoughts of the future. The future was always a gamble, and that day would prove it.

-
SOLAS
Knowing didn't provide the solace he had hoped for. The sight of the woman he loved being courted by another had left him unsettled, and his waking hours had been consumed by the turmoil of his own emotions. The conflicting spirits of love and despair whispered incessantly in his mind, making rest elusive.

To distract himself, he buried his focus in his work. Since their separation, many members of the Inquisition had been avoiding him more intensely than before, granting him a certain isolation. He met with Leliana to discuss his impending journey and spent hours poring over maps of the Outskirts of Kirkwall. He identified potential sites of interest—both gruesome events and ancient elven artifacts waiting for his judgment. Among these was one of his temples, previously thought destroyed. Of course to Leliana it was just another ancient elvhen ruin. It was possible Corypheus sought out one of his pools of power to augment the orb's strength. The sooner he could uncover what was truly happening, the sooner he could thwart Elgarnan's plans and be by her side again. And the thought of this being his immediate plan made no sense.

Thoughts of Nuria and images of Cullen’s confession plagued his mind, making it no surprise when he sensed a powerful wave of her energy in the Fade. It was a byproduct of her being a Dreamer and her growing connection to the Fade, he thought to himself. He could reach out to see what created such a strong wave, but it would only invite more of her presence into his personal space, which he wanted to avoid.

He dismissed the strong wave as normal and he continued his work until a soldier burst into the rotunda, breathless and frantic.

“Sir, your presence is requested immediately,” she said, her panic palpable. Solas followed, noting the urgency in her steps as they headed toward the Inquisitor’s chambers. His heart fell into his stomach. Was she sending a call for help? Along the way, he noticed signs of her magic in the corridors—scattered rubble and blood being hastily cleaned by servants.

“She’s been stabbed,” the soldier explained once they were out of earshot. “The assailant is imprisoned by her request. The blade was made of red lyrium, but…different”

When he entered her chambers, the scene was chaotic. The Inquisitor lay on her bed, groaning in agony as the healer struggled to administer a potion that seemed only to intensify her suffering. Blood gushing out of her side, the blade abandoned on her desk, glinting menacingly.

“Stop that and get out of my way!” he barked, his voice carrying the authority of his old command. He had no time for pretenses. The healer, taken aback by his ferocity, stepped aside with a muttered protest. Solas approached Nuria with a grim determination. Her injuries were severe—a deep gash on her shoulder and a stab wound on her side. She must have managed to partially stop the first stab but succumbed to the second. Though the wounds didn’t seem to have affected her internal organs, the red lyrium blade posed a grave risk of corruption.

He demanded specific herbs and dictated instructions for Dagna. As he came closer, he watched Nuria writhe in pain, confused by the loss of blood, her attempts to use healing magic only exacerbating the situation. The red lyrium was interfering with her magic, spreading corruption.

“Do not attempt any magic,” he instructed urgently, his hands gripping her face with a harshness he rarely exhibited. “It will only make things worse. I’m here now.” Her eyes were unfocused, but she leaned on his touch, nodding slightly.

Cole appeared, pointing at her body with a mournful expression. “The melody of delirium wants to sing inside.”

The spirit’s observation was accurate. Solas could sense the red lyrium shards embedded in her flesh, burrowing deeper and threatening to corrupt her. The blade had clearly been crafted with the intent of inflicting maximum pain and to bury its corruption into the victim. It was no ordinary blade. Corypheus had just started playing dirty.

He retrieved a cushion from the nearby couch and handed it to her. “Bite down on this. It’s going to be painful, but I’ll work as quickly as I can.” He placed a basin under her hand. “If you feel nauseous, use this. Cole will assist you.”

The first priority was removing the splinters of red lyrium. He washed his hands and prepared the tools of the healer that was still mumbling a weak protest, knowing time was of the essence. He could use magic to extract some of the shards, but that would be a lengthy process, and he needed to conserve his strength for what he had to do next.

“Try to stay as still as possible,” he instructed as he began the delicate work of removing the shards. He used both cold and healing magic to numb the pain as much as he could. Cole’s soothing words helped manage her discomfort, but every cry of pain made the task more difficult.

-

He alternated the grueling hard work of ripping shards from her flesh to mumbled apologies, where he would just lean into her and kiss her temples, cheeks and wherever he could reach, whispering words of comfort. After a time, as Solas worked, he became aware of Cullen’s presence and his agitated shouting. Blinking out of his intense focus, he saw Cullen accusing him.

“Why isn’t she asleep? Are you reveling in her suffering? What kind of twisted vengeance is this?”

“Commander, we don’t have time for this,” Solas said, his voice stern. “Putting her to sleep now would be extremely dangerous. Leave. I need to focus.”

Cullen’s glare was full of hatred, and the red lyrium in the room seemed to respond to his anger. “We have other healers that can do this, step away”

“There’s red lyrium in the room,” Solas continued, his voice rising. “It’s influencing your mood. Leave, or you will endanger her.”

Cullen’s anger flared further, but Cole’s voice resonated with a warning “The song likes you too much. She has a me friend, she doesn’t need red” Cole wills himself to be visible for Cullen, and after the initial scare by the grace of the Maker, he leaves. The situation was dire, and Solas had to maintain his focus.

-

With Dagna’s arrival, equipped with the potions he had requested, he felt a brief respite. She had been efficient, like she usually was. After Varric, she was the only other Child of The Stone he liked. She was incredibly sharp and interested in magic. An oddity.

“Can I assist further?” Dagna offered.

Solas considered her offer. As a dwarf, she was naturally resistant to red lyrium, and her skills were well-suited for the task: she had deft hands. He couldn’t trust the incompetent healers that tried giving her a potion, like that would solve the problem.

“Yes,” he said, relieved. “Please.”

Dagna took her place beside him, her steady hands providing much-needed support. With her help, Solas continued his painstaking work, driven by his determination to save his love.

Solas threw himself back into his work with a fervor born from desperation. Every cry of pain from the Inquisitor intensified the difficulty of his task, making his own anguish almost unbearable. Cole, despite his inability to make her forget the pain, proved to be an invaluable aid. The spirit’s soothing presence was a balm to both the Inquisitor and Solas, easing the worst of the suffering and handing her the basin when she reacted violently to the pain.

After what felt like an eternity, he finally managed to extract all the red lyrium shards from the stab wound. Exhausted but determined, he began the delicate work of closing the wound with magic, carefully stitching her flesh and skin back together. Dagna left the room, greener than Curiosity had sometimes been. Solas could feel his own strength waning, and he muttered a stream of ancient Elvish slurs under his breath, damning his weakness, terrified.

“Solas,” came her barely audible whisper, and he immediately adjusted his position to see her face. Her delicate features were wrecked by pain, but thanks to Cole’s efforts, her face was clean and her hair neatly tied back. He scanned for signs of corruption, and he could feel some of the corruption had been absorbed, despite his best efforts. If only he had a shred of his true strength he could have willed the shards into nothingness with a gesture. He was fuming when he heard a weak

“Hey”

He focused on her face again. The Inquisitor managed a faint smile, her gaze meeting his. “You’re not weak,” she said softly, the words piercing through his spirit. Her concern for him, even in her state, was almost too much for him to bear. He distinctly felt his love for her deepen in that moment, leaving him grappling with the impulse to kiss her and tell her everything, a mad thought in that situation.

“I’m all right,” she reassured him softly.

“You’re not,” Cole interjected, his voice a gentle but firm reminder of her true condition.

Despite the pain, she managed a small, comforting smile at the two. Her concern for them was a knife twisting in his heart. “You need a lyrium potion,” she whispered. “There’s some hidden in a compartment under the divan’s cushions, where your sleeping clothes were.”

He nodded, willing himself to move away from her side and retrieve the potion. As soon as he consumed it, his temples ceased their relentless throbbing. He didn’t notice it until then. He returned to her, as she was having a whispered conversation with Cole. The spirit’s head was resting gently on her palm. Solas took the red lyrium blade and shards outside to the balcony, ensuring he did not touch them directly, before coming back inside.

When the door opened, a servant was taking food into the room, Dagna in toe, a little less green than before. The Inquisitor twitched her nose at the smell of food. “Orders of Magister Pavus, he also left a note” Dorian repeating almost daily that he was no magister wasn’t enough to dispel the misunderstanding, it seemed.

Solas took the note from the servant, handing it to the Inquisitor. As the woman set everything on the Inquisitor’s desk, getting the basin to be cleaned. Solas quickly wrote a note propping the parchment to the wall. He then looked at Dagna. “Could you bring this to Dorian?” he asked

“Of course,” Dagna replied, all too glad to leave the sick room, tucking the note into her belt before sprinting out of the room.

Returning to the Inquisitor, Solas leaned closer. “I’m not hungry,” she whispered.

“You need to try at least,” he insisted. “Your body needs it. We’ll start with an endurance potion to help with hunger.” The sun was setting, and he realized just how long they had been at this. He didn’t want to know the exact duration, he stretched, shoulders aching. With Cole’s help, they managed to prop Nuria up into a sitting position. Solas retrieved one of the potions he had commissioned from Dagna, carefully labeled for his convenience.

“This potion might taste different from what you’re used to, but it will help,” he said, handing it to her. “Unlike what that savage was forcing you to drink.”

“She tried,” the Inquisitor murmured. He handed her the potion and a glass of water shaking his head, his hands burning with the desire to touch her, comfort her.

“Just take it. It will help,” Solas advised, his voice more insistent now.

Solas stepped away to fetch some food for himself, leaving a bowl of soup on the Inquisitor’s nightstand. “Please eat,” he urged.

“Dagna” Cole just said, disappearing with no further explanation. The poor woman, she was not likely to be well after all that blood

Nuria stared at the soup with distaste but finally picked up the spoon. “I won’t eat until you do,” she said, her gaze steady on Solas now. He takes a bite

“You’re still not eating,” he pointed out.

“Were you saying slurs before?” she asked unexpectedly.

Solas was taken aback. “I was,” he admitted, though he hadn’t expected the question.

She managed a mischievous expression despite her pain. “You’ve never taught me those.”

“It hardly seemed a priority,” he replied.

“But it is. I can teach you some Danish ones in exchange.”

He sighed. “In my experience with the Dalish, they’re all just curses aimed at Fen’Harel.”

“True enough. The forgotten ones are avoided even in curses. But there are more” she promised

“Teach me while we eat,” he suggested.

Solas chuckled softly, finding comfort in the normalcy of their conversation. They spent the meal exchanging stories and slurs. Cole, joining after helping Dagna, offered his own interpretation of the meaning of the slurs. Nuria favored ones involving bows and halls, while Solas shared ones used in Ancient Arlathan. Though the conversation had to pause occasionally, it was the most pleasant exchange they’d had since their breakup.

When Dagna returned, a dwarf healer with her, the operation had to resume. Solas and the Inquisitor shared a look.

“You need to rest, it’s an order” She didn’t even attempt to put authority in her voice. She held his gaze for a long time, until he caved “When did you tell her?“ he just asked. She tried a jokingly fake innocent smile, then winced.

“Just go,” she urged him, her voice firm despite her pain.

He hesitated, his headache a sharp reminder of his own exhaustion. “Take this before I go,” he said, handing her a pain-relief potion. She nodded gratefully.

As he left the room, he fought the urge to turn back. He knew he was the only one capable of removing the corruption, and it would take everything he had. Someone else could deal with the shards in her shoulder, the injury wasn’t as grave. The thought of the source of power in the Deep Roads loomed large, his desire to protect her was stronger than ever. As he got farther, he heard her suffering resume and almost turned back, then stopped. He needed to be stronger.

-

Despite his own fatigue, Solas spent the next while meticulously drawing protective runes for Dagna. These runes were crucial for the Inquisitor's healing and to safeguard her from demons while she slept. Dreamers, especially those who have been wounded by red lyrium, are exceptionally vulnerable and appetizing in this wretched world he has ruined.

Once the runes were inscribed and activated, the act of not casting and stepping away from the red lyrium allowed him a measure of relief. By the time he reentered the Inquisitor’s room, the extraction was complete. Dagna looked unnaturally pale, her strength clearly waning. The Inquisitor, drenched in sweat and panting, mustered the energy to curse softly in ancient Elvish.

“Applying. My. Knowledge,” she breathed between gasps.

Dagna was slowly washing away the blood from herself, murmuring, “I think I need to leave.”

“Thank you, Dagna,” the Inquisitor said, her breath gradually steadying. “Blood is not your thing,” she added with a weary smile.

“It’s not,” Dagna confirmed with a pained look. Without further ado, Dagna took the shards and the dagger and departed, Cole slipping away as well.

Solas settled beside the Inquisitor, his hands steady as he created a gentle cooling breeze on her bare skin, cleaned the blood, and patted her dry with a towel. He channeled healing magic into her wounds, working to counteract the corruption that had seeped in. She would be left with a scar on her side, but he was determined to ensure the corruption did not spread further.

“Is it bad?” she asked, her voice strained.

“I will heal you,” he assured her firmly.

“But the mission—”

“I will not leave until I’m certain you are alright. You’ll have to drag me out of Skyhold if necessary, and I will fight back,” he said with unwavering seriousness. She closed her eyes and leaned back, her exhaustion palpable.

“I let my guard down. This is my fault,” she admitted, her voice tinged with regret. “It won’t happen again.”

“You must be on guard at all times,” Solas instructed. “You have become a political and religious icon, there’s no turning back. People will always try to use your power for their own advantage or to take it from you. Trust no one.”

“Can I trust you?” she asked quietly.
“You continue to hide secrets from me while treating me as if I were the most precious being in all of Thedas. It is confusing,” she said, her eyes still closed. Solas remained silent. He knew that she needed a yes he couldn’t give her, and that honesty could further complicate matters. He couldn’t risk being removed from the Inquisition or from her side, especially at such a critical moment. His primary concern was preventing the corruption from spreading.

“That is for you to decide,” he replied. “I’ve done nothing but support your mission and your training. Recent events might have altered your perception of me. The choice is yours.”

“I see,” she murmured after a pause, disappointed. “Sometimes I don’t feel like a person anymore, just” she writes in pain. “What’s the next step?”

“You need to sleep,” Solas began. “The corruption might allow Corypheus to attack your mind when your defenses are low. I’ll need to be in the Fade to guard you against any mental incursions. However, the remaining corruption must also be dealt with. I’ve contacted Dorian and provided him with a spell to keep the corruption in stasis. He’ll need to cast it continuously while you sleep. I’ve advised him to rest and that I would call him from the Fade when needed. Do you need assistance falling asleep? I’d prefer you not be alone.”

“I’ll manage,” she replied, her exhaustion evident. “I’m nearly nodding off as it is.”

“Good,” Solas said, mostly to himself. “That will save you from needing another potion; too many could be counterproductive.” He checked her comfort level one last time. “Are you comfortable?”

“I am.”

With careful consideration, he climbed onto the bed beside her, taking her hand gently in his. He shifted to find a comfortable position while maintaining as much distance as possible.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said softly. “Just be comfortable. I’m in too much pain to care.”

Solas adjusted his position slightly, moving closer despite the cushions propping her up. He ended up almost curling around her hand, his proximity a subtle but comforting presence. As exhaustion took over, he fell asleep quickly, his nose brushing against her wrist, finding solace in their closeness despite the day’s trials.

INQUISITOR
She told him not to worry, but the truth was, she cared deeply. His proximity was both a soothing balm and a source of intense emotion, making her heart race uncontrollably. She could barely shift her gaze toward him from her position, but she listened to the rhythmic sound of his even breaths in the dim light. He never snored, and that small detail brought her a sense of calm.

Despite the comfort of his presence, her body felt like it was on fire, and her mind spiraled through a whirlpool of thoughts: the mission, the charity event, the kids, him, and Cullen. Everything seemed impossibly tangled, and the heat she felt from his breath on her skin made her wonder if there was any chance of forgetting him, or if she was destined to love him forever, pining for him until her last breath. The intensity of her emotions suggested that she might not be able to let go, no matter how hard she tried.

As she wrestled with these thoughts, Dorian entered the room, moving with practiced quiet. He took in the scene with a look of mounting concern, glancing from her to Solas, who slept beside her. Dorian didn’t comment on the unusual sight. Instead, he offered a reassuring smile and said,

“Sleep now, my friend. I’ll keep watch. If I can’t maintain it, Vivienne and Morrigan are on standby. You’ll be safe.”

“Thank you,” she whispered in return, her voice barely audible.

As Dorian began to summon crackling energy, she focused on the warmth of her friends and the comfort of her clan, trying to drown out the chaos in her mind. She willed herself to sleep, letting the soothing energy and the promise of safety guide her into a much-needed rest.

Chapter Text

SOLAS
As soon as Solas feels her presence in the Fade he instantly leaps into action. For a fleeting moment he leaps instinctively as he had hind legs to support him. He finds her in a self-imposed cage, her automatic defense mechanism, resurfacing now that she feels fragile. She appears disoriented and exhausted, the air around them thick with the impending threat of spirits looking for a way to reach the Waking. He quickly steps outside the cage, conjuring a comfortable bed within it.

"Rest," he says softly, his voice imbued with reassurance. "I’ll ensure nothing hurts you."

She nods, her eyes too unfocused to protest, collapsing onto the bed, barely coherent to begin with. Solas doesn’t worry about her state; he creates a thin veil around the cage to shield her from the outside world. He then transforms into his first form, a colossal six-eyed black direwolf, not as massive as it used to be, but now, his true essence is fully realized in the Fade. He prowls around the cage, his presence sending ripples strong enough to scare off lesser spirits. He feels the comfort of this form as he resumes his first role when he gained an elven form: protector.

Yet, the energy of an injured Dreamer is irresistible to stronger spirits. As she begins to dream, the Fade around the cage shifts into a familiar scene of her clan, a clear sign of her homesickness. A spirit of Loss manifests from an aravel, retaining its red and brown hues but taking on a form that draws everything into its emptiness. It tries to reach the wolf

“They're all gone, soon she will be too” it says, but is effortlessly dissolved with a swipe of his paw.

As the Dread Wolf continues his vigilant patrol, a powerful influx of familiar energy approaches, taking the form of a dragon. Mythal’s presence commands the Fade, her wings outstretched as she settles into the dreamscape. Her arrival is marked by a palpable shift in the environment, causing the Inquisitor's dream to waver.

"Hello, old friend," Mythal greets him, her tone both playful and regal.

The two massive beings face each other. Mythal’s dominant presence reshapes the Fade around them, causing the Inquisitor to whimper in her disturbed dream. The Dread Wolf’s ears twitch.
"Greetings, remnant of Mythal," he responds, his voice steady.

"I would suggest you treat me with more respect given your current condition," she replies, a hint of menace in her voice. "I could consume you and your lover in a single bite."

"That was not intended as an offense," he says calmly, unperturbed by the threat. "It was merely a term of endearment." He concludes with irony.

Her laughter shakes the terrain, and makes a few spirits cower away. Her eyes threaten to pierce the Fade. He feels Nuria shift in her bed, gasping, but still asleep. His ears twitch.

"Could I advise you to tone down your presence a bit? She might wake up."

"Of course," Mythal concedes, her energy becoming more subdued. The Inquisitor’s dreams stabilize, and the wolf’s ears stop twitching.

Solas takes a moment to dispel a Spirit of Rage before addressing Mythal. "What brings you here?"

"My own Pride doesn’t visit me, so I come to honor you," she says, her tone mixed with disdain.

"I’ve been preoccupied with regaining my strength," he replies, a touch of frustration in his voice.

Mythal chuckles, her voice echoing with ancient amusement. "Too busy to see your only ally? But you’ve certainly been busy—with Corypheus and your child lover. And don’t think you can avoid the topic, Dread Wolf."

Solas sits casually where the last spirit was vanquished. "We were never lovers."

"Don’t deceive yourself. The Fade reflects emotions, and yours are loud and clear. You love her," Mythal accuses, her tone sharp and indignant. "It doesn’t matter if you never took her to your bed. You’ve taken countless others that never crossed your mind twice afterwards, but this one has managed to ravage your psyche," she continues. "I’ve observed, and you haven’t even tried to put up wards. Perhaps you wanted me to see and know your every thought, like in the old days?"

"I didn’t think you’d be interested in something so trivial." He counters casually

"Oh, but it is important," she insists, her voice resonating with a deep, ancient loneliness. "I’ve lived millennia without allies, without anyone who could understand me. Now, here you are, my closest ally, My Pride, finally awakened to complete my revenge, and yet you get distracted by a mortal, doubt your purpose, refuse to speak to me?"

The barrage of accusations leaves the wolf speechless for a time, the casual mannerism replaced by an undeniable stiffness.

“I have not forgotten my purpose. I will restore what I have destroyed, and I will not let those who killed my Sylvun’elan, my Creator, walk free, ever again. They will not drown the world in their greed” He’s a proud creature, always.

“And yet here you are Pride, a simple guard dog for a mortal. How does this help the cause?” The Dragon is seething, nostrils flaring with specks of fire.

"I can’t help much the way I am now. Would you help me regain my strength, Sylvun’elan?" The Dread Wolf asks, turning to face her, attempting to distract her once again.

"Of course, my Sal’tuem, my Creation," she replies with a sinister edge. "I only need a little assistance once you’re restored—to destroy my husband and his accomplices, whom you so carefully caged, and then, your promise to allow me to rule over New Arlathan as I see fit, with no ingerence from you."

The wolf’s growl is sudden and fierce. That remnant was truly mad, if it thought that or even suggested that he would be a part of it. He tore the world asunder to stop that from happening, he tore the world asunder to avenge Mythal, the only one that wasn’t corrupted by power. His anger was great, clouding his better judgment. How dare that creature use her name, her voice, to say something so vile? If he had his strength he would have eliminated it in an instant. "I will never submit to that, remnant. Do your worst."

"Should I?" Mythal's laughter is chilling. "Your child lover is so fragile, so good-hearted. There are many delicious ways I could break her."

"She’s not my lover. And you’ve had plenty of mortal lovers yourself," he retorts. "Why focus on her, who will die in mere decades?"

She chuckles softly, in a way that she would have "My dear Pride, it seems I still have lessons to teach you. This form requires children of the blood to remain in the Waking with your Veil," she explains, her tone dripping with derision. "I barely tolerated most enough to last a night. But you... you actually love her." Her laughter is a dreadful echo, an accusation she repeated now, twice.
"Or you can find another way to appease me," she continues. "Your lack of manners has deeply unsettled me. I could be more accommodating if you prove yourself worthy. Or perhaps we could settle this with a hunt?"

The dragon’s presence shatters the barriers Solas constructed around the cage, spirits flooding in. Mythal revels in the chaos, her delight evident as every blade of grass in the Inquisitor's dream sprouts hostile spirits. The landscape morphs into a cave, with the sounds of whipping and a child's whimpers piercing through the cacophony of spirits. The shouting is unbearable, each spirit singing its own symphony, impossible to follow. He can get a few words here and there, but it's endless

Mythal’s remnant knows that Solas cannot keep up with her, and she relishes the opportunity to torment him, testing how far he will go for his beloved.

Mythal laughs and flies around, savoring morsel after morsel of anguished spirits, purely having fun. On the other hand, the wolf has a harder time keeping up. He’s not playing for sport; he’s protecting the cage from attacks coming from all directions, and worrying that the Inquisitor could wake and find him out at the same time. It's probably all part of Mythal's plan. Rage, despair, loss, desire, and more flood in. All kinds of demons filter through, forming little groups and alliances when they realize they can't beat the wolf if they act alone. Solas takes some hits, his priority protecting her and not himself. The Dreamland slowly becomes a battlefield, as spirits of justice, faith, valor, and fortitude join the fray, trying to protect her. These spirits are drawn to her by her deeds and now act in accordance with their purpose, defending a true spirit that embodies them.

The battle seems endless, fatigue washing over the wolf as Mythal keeps her distance, killing just far enough away to be useless in the defense of the mortal. The Inquisitor’s nightmare changes again, to a forest at night with the sounds of a woman panting, a baby crying, and a plea to run. She whimpers softly, and a spirit of rage manages to touch the covering of her cage. The wolf shouts:
"That's enough!"

Mythal takes her time answering, her laughter echoing. "Oh, is it?" She chuckles. "Yeah, there's no fun when there's no match." With that, his wards start functioning again, and the endless stream stops, most spirits being consumed by the wards themselves. The wolf is bruised and panting by the time the she-dragon gracefully lands beside him, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"This is sufficient for calling me a remnant, I would say. But if I were you, I would think of ways to gain my forgiveness, friend. You don't want me to play games with your mortal." The dragon flies back out of that piece of the Fade, and a few seconds later, the Inquisitor’s voice resonates through it.

"Solas?" she asks gingerly. He shifts quickly as the cover of her cage falls by her will. Was he quick enough? She's still batting her eyelashes furiously, shaking herself awake. Or well, the dream version of awake. She sees his bruises and shoots his way, dissolving the cage in an instant. She stops short of touching him, their new relationship stopping her like a whiplash

"Oh no, are you hurt? I should have helped, I'm sorry."

He raises a hand. "You have nothing to apologize for. I told you I would protect you, and I have. You look better, that's what matters." Her shape is more clear and less transparent than before.
"I feel better," she admits, the shape of her dream returning to the Clan Lavellan camp. She smiles, looking at her brother in the memory. An awkward adolescent still figuring out how his elongated limbs work. Her smile is worth it all, but worries him nonetheless. Mythal could decide to hurt her in any number of ways; he needs to find a way to appease that remnant before she becomes victim of yet another mistake he made.

"You should rest," she says, her cage disappearing. "You look pale." She instinctively steps close to him, then, realizing her mistake, makes to step back. He stops her with a hand on her shoulder, then, slowly by resting his forehead on her shoulder. This is a mistake. But he needed to touch her, feel her. This is a mistake.

"I just need to rest my head a bit. Do you mind?" his voice is steady, strong, not really convincing for someone who claims to be tired.

"No," she replies quickly.

He suppresses a spirit of Love from showing up. He just learned another reason he should let her go, but, every time, he gets pulled back into her gravity. He sighs. He really is doomed.

INQUISITOR

When the Inquisitor wakes, she immediately senses a different kind of magic at work. Morrigan is casting Solas’ spell, her face etched with exhaustion. As soon as Morrigan notices the Inquisitor's awake, she nearly collapses, only her sheer determination keeping her upright. Dorian is sprawled on a divan, surrounded by empty lyrium potions. Solas, who had been beside the Inquisitor, starts up, still holding her hand.

"Mother ordered me before Dorian could send a message," Morrigan says, her tone laden with foreboding. "It seems you have attracted Mythal’s attention. I suggest you devise a strategy; she takes her revenges seriously." Morrigan looks at both of them. He sits.

The Inquisitor looked at Solas, who appears deeply concerned. "How? I have met her once with you"

"Tis not for me to say," Morrigan responds curtly. "My duty here is done. I must attend to my child. He should not wake without knowing where I am."

Without further ado, Morrigan exits, still unsteady on her feet, clutching a lyrium potion on the way.

"Nuri?" Dorian calls, his voice tinged with worry. She tries to move but winces in pain. Solas rises from the bed, putting some distance between them.

Dorian, groggy and confused, raises his head. "Did Morrigan...?"

"Yes," Solas confirms, stretching. "She just left."

Dorian grumbles and drops back to sleep.

"I should fetch a servant to help you refresh and change," Solas says. "You should also eat something before we proceed with the next part." He starts to leave when the Inquisitor calls out.

"Wait," she says, struggling to find the words. He doesn’t turn but stiffens.

"I’ll be back soon, I promise," Solas reassures her with an intimate voice that he drops immediately, replacing it with a worried look. What has he seen in the Fade? Solas stands still for a moment, his emotions difficult to read. The door opens to admit three servants and a weary-looking Cullen.

"You’re awake!" Cullen exclaims, ignoring everyone else as he rushes to her side.

"Someone was not," Dorian laments from the divan, his voice tinged with exhaustion.

Cullen takes her hand, and when he moves to kiss it, Solas quietly steps away, going through the door. She retracts her hand.

"Please, Cullen," she says, her tone harsh, or as harsh as she can make it in her condition. Not the time or the place, with so many eyes on them.

"I understand," Cullen whispers, his gaze softening.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, his eyes scanning her face with concern.

"Do I look that bad?" she replies, attempting a lighthearted tone.

"No!" he says a little too quickly, then sighs and admits,

"Yes." He's too honest to lie, and the truth slips out despite his intentions. She chuckles fondly at his sincerity.

"I wish I could do something for you," Cullen whispers, stealing a quick, tender kiss on her cheek. She blushes at the unexpected gesture.

"Don't worry about me," she says, but a wince of pain betrays her. Seeing this, he holds her hand more firmly, his grip a steady source of comfort.

"I'm here for you," Cullen murmurs, his voice a soft promise. "Always."

The servants have already swiftly set about their tasks, straightening the room and drawing back the curtains to let the early morning light pour in, blinding Nuria. The fresh sunlight casts a warm glow, returning the room to reality. Dorian grumbles in protest as the light seeps in, but his complaints are cut short when Cullen ushers him out of the room.

"But I've seen her naked plenty of times!" Dorian protests as he is shown the door.

"Dorian, you’ll help the rumors spread," the Inquisitor whips, her voice tinged with exasperation. She’s already burdened by whispers and scandal, with rumors stating that she’s the New Bride of the Maker, and at the same time the harlot who has bedded half the Inquisition, Dorian being the most popular pick, and Solas, surprisingly, not being included at all in the rumors. The tevinter magister must sound like a much more tantalizing and scandalous choice.

"It’s how you’ll become believable as my cover wife!" Dorian shouts as he’s unceremoniously kicked out.

Once the room is cleaned, the bed refreshed, and the Inquisitor washed, she is carefully helped back into bed. A visibly exhausted Dagna arrives, carrying a fresh supply of healing potions, runes, and lyrium potions.

"Dagna, thank you. You shouldn’t have gone through so much trouble," the Inquisitor says, her gratitude evident despite her lingering exhaustion. "Have you slept at all?"

"I will now," Dagna replies, nearly stumbling as she exits the room, exhausted.

-
Solas returns, his demeanor once again cold and impassive. He begins preparing the ritual to extract the corruption from the Inquisitor’s body and into an empty runestone.

The pain is resuming in increasingly big waves, the effects of Dorian’s and Morrigan’s spell waning. Her pain makes it difficult to focus on anything but the immediate need for relief, and her love life feels like a distant concern. However, Vivienne does not seem to share this sentiment. She storms into the room, her voice sharp with indignation.

"A mage with no formal training should not be in charge of our leader's health. I do not recognize this rune," she says accusingly, pointing at one of Solas’s tools as if it might be contagious. Leliana and Josephine follow her in the room

"We’ve already discussed this," Solas retorts, his tone icy. "You have no solution, and I do. We don’t have time to indulge your inferiority complex or ignorance." he usually wouldn’t be so openly hostile.
"You’ve been given more freedom than you deserve, apostate. Don’t think that—"

"The only thing I’m thinking about is saving her life," Solas cuts her off. "We don’t have time for this. Now leave, or I’ll make you."

His fury catches Vivienne off guard, making her recoil slightly. This pause gives the Inquisitor a chance to intervene.

"Vivienne, I’m trusting Solas with this. Please, do not interfere."

The commotion has attracted a sleepy Dorian, who has appeared from the adjacent living room, and Cullen, who was presumably waiting nearby.

Seeing she has no support, Vivienne’s resolve wavers. However, her parting shot is sharp.

"Very well. But I suggest you are more careful with whom you trust for advice, and in your bedroom. But I trust your taste is improving in that regard." With a final, defiant smile, she turns and leaves the room.

The door closes behind her, and Solas stands in the now quiet room, his mask of politeness gone, replaced by open frustration.

"Now, if the parade is quite over," he barks, gesturing for the others to leave. They file out, leaving the Inquisitor alone with Solas, who is fidgeting with his tools, clearly buying time.

"Solas?" she calls softly, her voice strained with pain.

"If it doesn’t regard the ritual directly," he says, his tone a mix of frustration and resignation, "I’d rather discuss it later." Or never, if his tone is any indication

"I’m sorry," she manages to say, a new wave of pain washing over her. "Please proceed."

With a deep, steadying breath, Solas turns his full attention back to the ritual, his focus intense and unwavering as he begins the delicate process of drawing the corruption from her body.

The ritual is complex, comprising of three distinct phases. The first draws the corruption to the surface, the second extracts it from her body, and the third transfers it into the rune.

Even though Solas explains the procedure and warns her of the pain, she is not prepared for the sheer agony. The first phase burns like hell as he walks around her, drawing intricate glyphs in the air. Each stroke ignites her veins with fire, her insides feeling as if they are melting in resistance. She grips the sheets, her knuckles white, biting back screams that threaten to escape.

The second phase brings a new kind of pain. The corruption hooks onto her skin, refusing to be dislodged. Solas chants fervently, his voice a strained plea against the malevolent force. The anchor on her hand crackles violently, emitting waves of green light so intense she struggles to see through the blinding flashes. Each pulse feels like shards of glass being dragged through her flesh.

The third phase is mercifully quick, but no less taxing. With a decisive gesture, Solas commands the corruption into the rune. The room is filled with an eerie silence as the last of the red lyrium leaves her body, leaving her breathless and trembling. Solas collapses to his knees, barely able to maintain that position. Sweat drips from his brow, his face pale and etched with exhaustion.

The Inquisitor, too weak to speak, manages to crawl out of bed. Every movement is an ordeal, her muscles screaming in protest, but she forces herself upright. She stumbles to the table where a series of Lyrium potions awaits, her vision swimming. By the time she reaches him, only Solas' pride keeps him from collapsing completely. She kneels beside him, pressing the vial to his lips with trembling hands.

"Drink," she manages to whisper, her voice barely audible. He complies, swallowing the potion slowly. Then, both of them collapse to the ground, awake but utterly spent, unable to move a muscle.

At some point, she becomes vaguely aware of the door opening and the whole inner circle rushing in, a flurry of voices and blurred faces she can't quite place. Cullen helps her sit up, someone else supports Solas, and they are both given potions. The chaotic symphony of voices gradually becomes clearer, but a raging headache emerges as her new primary concern. She finally finds her voice.

"Everyone just shut up." Miraculously, the room falls silent. It takes her a moment to gather her strength to speak again. Solas looks drained, barely holding on.

"We need to sleep. Help us onto the bed. Dreamer thing. I don't want to hear a word." Her command is met with a flurry of movement as Cassandra and Bull lift them onto the bed.

"Now everyone, leave," she says, her vision swimming with stars. Her main concern is Solas, who is barely conscious. She can move a bit and talk, but he's in worse shape.

She turns towards him, gently cupping his face and stroking his cheek. He blinks, his gaze becoming a bit clearer.

"Solas, you need to sleep. You need to rest."

He shakes his head, his eyes unfocused. "I'll find you in the Fade and I'll protect you."

"No," he insists.

"Don't be stubborn. Let me help you. How can I help?"

"Don't move," he murmurs, ducking his head to rest it between her shoulder and the mattress, like he did in the Fade. He nestles his head on the nape of her neck, his lips brushing just below it. Her skin ignites with sensation, and he doesn't speak for a while, just breathing deeply and occasionally nuzzling her.

"Are you falling asleep?" she asks softly.

"No. I just need to rest my head a bit."

"Is that what the kids called it in Ancient Arlathan?" This earns her a tired chuckle.

"Perhaps."

In the silence, she hears her own heart beating fast, wondering if Solas can hear it, so close to his ear. They stay like that for a time, until she hesitantly moves a hand to his back, tracing slow circles. He stops breathing for a moment, then relaxes into her touch. She relaxes too, easing in the sensation of his body, his breath against her skin, melting in the familiarity of it. He always smelled so good, especially now that a bit of his natural essence transpired after the ritual. He smells different after performing magic, it feels more than smell like the calm that settles like a heavy snow, the miracle of life that follows the world becoming white. She feels dizzy, naturally drifting to sleep. After all, they spent so many nights sleeping like that, just closer. He never felt close enough.

She can feel him settling ever so slightly closer to her. After a time he reaches out as if to put a hand around her waist, traveling lightly over her body leaving behind fire, but then grows rigid. He pulls back sharply, attempting to sit, but he is too weak and falls back on the bed before .

"I'm sorry, I won't touch you, but you need to rest," she pleads.

"I'm better now. I'm leaving." He tries to sit again but fails. Defeated, he lies back down, facing away from her. She doesn't dare to say or do anything else.

Eventually, she falls asleep, and when she wakes up, he is gone.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

From that day on, she doesn't see Solas. He avoids her, isolating himself to an extreme. Only Dagna has access to him, bringing potions that put her at her wits' end. When the Inquisitor asks the dwarf, she says, "He’s recuperating. I can't tell how he feels, and I struggle to believe he actually drinks these potions. They're so hard to make I sometimes think he's just seeing how far I can go, and the ingredients aren't used in a conventional way."

Desperate for answers, she turns to Cole, but he only says, "The dragon wants to eat the wolf's heart, so he's trying to get it out of his chest." It doesn't help. That sentence, though, reminds her of the wolf she saw as she was gaining consciousness in the Fade. She was in a really bad state however, it must have been a metaphor.

She's so desperate she seeks Solas out in the Fade, but she can't find him. She's sure he doesn't allow her to find him, but doesn't know how. She takes the hint and doesn't seek him out further. He's adamant about staying away from her, and she needs to accept it. Cullen spends every free moment with her, and they start to know each other better. He takes an interest in the books she reads, and she plays chess with him often. He holds her hand, making her blush, and when she looks at him now she can't believe she never saw the love in his eyes. If she can let Solas go, she sees that Cullen will do whatever it takes to make her happy. So far, she feels embarrassed by her own blindness.

Due to the situation, however, the charity event has been canceled. She's recovering quickly, so it plays perfectly with their plans for Kirkwall, but showing up to an event pretending to be weak it’s an invitation for danger or being uncovered, and she can’t afford either.

It's endlessly frustrating. She hoped to do one good thing that no human or wannabe God led her to do, something that would outlast her, and there she was, hopeless because of her own distraction. She absently kicks an empty vial over the edge of the balcony, then takes deep breaths. You're a mage, you're in control, you must be in control. She pushed it in once more.

One day,, Cullen enters her room with a big grin on his face. She doesn't see anything unusual with it; he's always smiling like that when he has time to see her. She was carving on the balcony, taking in the sun and fresh air, putting her hands to good use. There's a letter ready on her desk to be sent to her Clan. She has to play up her sickness even with them, and it makes her miss them badly. Incense burns on her altar to the Creators, and the sweet scent fills the room. She’s aware she’s holding on to something that in her heart of hearts is gone, but what’s left of Nuria otherwise? If she’s no longer Dalish, who is she?

Cullen sits by her side, looking at the carving curiously. It's quite big compared to her other work, but she hasn't had this much free time since the Conclave.

"What is it going to be?" he asks.

"The Dread Wolf, God of Tricksters. We put these facing outside our camps to scare evil spirits away. I think I need all the help I can get."

He takes her hand in his, kissing the back of it while looking her straight in the eye. That is a sure way of making her blush, and she's quite sure he enjoys seeing her reaction to his touch.

"You remember I told you I wanted to give you another gift?"

She nods, and he keeps holding her hand.

"Well, it's ready. I know that you really want to make the orphanage happen, and I thought of ways to help. One of my old superiors was the second son of a rich merchant family that joined the order to keep him from inheriting anything. His older brother was a Gaspar supporter and died when Celene took revenge after Halamshiral. Well, with the order disbanded, he's now the head of his family, and for all his money, he doesn't have a title. Josephine and I pulled some strings with the Empress, who named him baron, and in exchange, he's going to give us the money and a building to start the orphanage." The Inquisitor is stunned for a few seconds before a rush of happiness washes through her. Did he just rush in and solved the issue for her?

"Cullen, that is incredible. Thank you," she exclaims, hugging him tight and whispering "thank you" at least ten times in a row. She only stops when he holds her back. Her heart skips a beat when he whispers, "Anything for you," directly into her ear. They stay like that for a minute, then Cullen pulls back just enough to see her face. He cups her cheek delicately, then strokes her cheek with his thumb.

"You're so beautiful when you smile," he whispers fondly. 

Being in his arms feels different. He's so much broader and stronger than Solas. With his body tight against her, she can feel the stark difference. Solas was lean and strong, but Cullen's body is molded by training and battle. Dorian's comment about finding a strong, willing soldier to make her see stars comes to her mind, and she lets go. They’re closer than they’ve ever been since his confession, and the situation is getting out of hand for her. She tugs a bit at his sleeves, and he lets her go and steps back a bit. She turns, taking a full minute to find her footing again. It would have taken her more time if Cullen didn’t distract her.

"Come on," he says, smiling. "Let's go inside. We have matters to discuss." His words, full of warmth, help her feel clamer, even if just for a moment. She didn't know what to feel about the orphanage. She was happy, grateful of course. But once again, someone else stepped in to solve her problem, and she will probably get all the praise, maybe earn a new deranged title she doesn’t want. Once again, she wasn’t able to do something real without help.

“There is the matter of the spy. You should judge her, and Leliana wants to make it a very public display of how poorly you’re doing. She’s going all out with makeup to make you look sicker. This will likely make Corypheus think the corruption is taking over, and we’ll be free to leave. We’re leaving in three days; Solas is leaving tomorrow.” Cullen's voice faltered slightly on that last part, but when she looked at him, her face remained neutral.

“Thank you for the report,” she replied calmly.

“If you’re feeling up to it, we can judge the spy today.”

She nodded, she was starting to feel crazy, closed up in her room like that.

“I’ll take care of it then.” He started to leave, then turned and kissed her cheek, making her blush again. He lingered for a moment longer and smiled before really leaving this time. When he left she sighs, rubbing her left palm. It hurts. It had been hurting more intensely and more frewuently for a while. She looks at the palm. She feels the magic pulsating in her, it felt like a killer skinning her taking strip after strip of skin. Carefully, leisurely. She chased the thought away. She had enough time to kill Corypheus.

Leliana went all out. She took care of the fake Vallaslin that were fading, then made her look so horrible that she got a little worried when she saw herself in the mirror.

“I will never trust you when you take a sick day ever again,” she said, and both women laughed. They even gave her a cane, and Leliana instructed her on how to walk like she was truly frail for a few hours. Before they went into public view, Leliana summarized the situation: the spy couldn’t leave because she would reveal what they knew, couldn’t stay because she would try again and escape. There seemed to be just one solution. Or maybe not, Nuria thought, if she could have her way.

“I’ve been thinking, and I can’t interrogate Corypheus’ people in the Fade because of their corruption. What if I removed Corypheus from their mind, making them forget like Cole does? We wouldn’t get any more information, but it would spare a life.”

Leliana raised her eyebrows, taking a careful look at the Inquisitor’s face

“Are you sure you want to try this? Are you well enough?”

“I am, thanks to Solas. How is he?” She tried to sound casual.

The Nightingale smiles softly “He’s well. He’s been burying himself in work, preparing for his departure.”

“Good,” she replied neutrally. She could feel Leliana resist a smile. She could pretend not to care until it finally happened, right? Her feelings didn’t really feel any different. Maybe she was truly doomed. Doomed to love forever a man that didn’t want her. Doomed to look in the abyss of feelings of love in her heart to find nothing but him, only him, forever. What a cruel joke it was. To take someone that refused to let anyone in her heart and then leave to grapple with the understanding that once she let someone in, it wasn't possible to get them out. He was etched in her heart like the Vallaslin used to be etched on her skin, but he trace he left didn't disappear with the spell.

She stepped out of the room leaving behind her abyss, slowly taking her place, putting great care into making her best impression of a frail woman who barely escaped death. Her back bent in a slightly unnatural direction, as if she tried to stand straight but couldn't. Her cane, treated like the only anchor capable of keeping her from falling. She had Cullen help her to the throne, and she even exhaled painfully as she sat, capturing half of the sound in her throat. It was all a fake show of strength for a woman on the brink of death. Cullen looked worried. That was a good sign; she was acting well.

That was the moment the spy was dragged in. She looked like she had taken a beating. Leliana’s doing, no doubt.

The spy snickered at the sight of the Inquisitor. 

“Look at her, Master. I may have done my job yet. Take her soul for Dumat!” She looked like a lunatic, her eyes wide and invoking an invisible being. She kept laughing, giving the Inquisitor time to whisper, 

“Cole, can you read her for me?” She could sometimes feel him pushing just enough in the fabric of reality to be where he pleased. But he could choose where to be. He chose to be near her, when he could, to push as to say hello in a way only a Spirit could. No words, just that feeling of reality pushing and shifting.It was a private moment of understanding, every time it happened. They were friends, and feeling him looming close was reassuring. After the attempt on her life, he felt guilty for not being with her, and she almost constantly felt his presence.

“Blades. Blades in my bones. Blades in my flesh. Pushing, healing and hurting. The fake Herald has saved me from my righteous sacrifice but she won’t win. She will not stop my lord. I won’t let her. Knives on the side of her face, making her dirty, inferior. She will bend or she will die.” whispers Cole

The assassin must have seen Cole too, because she struggled against the guards and her chains, screaming, “Make the thing stop!”

She was much wilder than when the Inquisitor first met her, when she pretended to be a messanger. Could it be the red lyrium’s fault? She hadn’t gotten her fix for a few days already. She didn’t look at Cullen, but she felt him incredibly still by her side. She ignored the assassin.

“You can’t make her forget, right?” 

“It’s not pain, it’s faith.”

She nodded. She had whispered the whole time; a keen observer might have thought she was saying something to Cullen or that her frail state affected her mind too.

“I have my ruling,” she announced, her tone limited but clear for most of the people observing to hear. “My wounds speak for themselves, and her antics in front of everyone here do too. This woman is guilty of attempted murder and incapable of cooperating. She will be executed tonight.”

There were claps and cheers all around. Everyone approved of a good execution, some would be less enthusiastic to learn it wouldn't be public. People loved a public execution. The satisfying taste of violence, death and justice, far enough to be someone else's burden. A community event of horror.

-

SOLAS

He had given too much of himself to rid her of corruption. She had his Anchor, so she just couldn’t die before Corypheus’ defeat, but the amount of corruption in her body wasn't life threatening, she could have fought Corypheus before it actually affected her in any significant way. What he did to himself, however, was life threatening. He gave too much and almost broke himself. She shouldn’t be able to make him do these things. She was dangerous. 

Solas had been avoiding her. It was the only logical path, the only solution to his dilemma. He couldn’t reveal his true identity, nor could he abandon his plans. He had to regain his strength, regain the Foci and tear down the Veil to restore the world of the elves. Also, it suddenly became important to become more powerful than Mythal’s remnant. His friend was too broken and unpredictable. He would love to restore her to the world, but until then, he had to keep her in check. In all of his plans, the Inquisitor was an obstacle, and yet he almost confessed the truth, again, when they were lying together and she was soothing him. He spent his time warding his dreams, enlisting his spirit allies to strengthen those wards, hoping to keep her and Mythal from wandering into his mind.

Yet, spirits of Love continued to follow him in the Fade.

“It's so sweet, so special. The glimmer of hope she brings out of everyone, even you. She waded through darkness until she found it, she cradled it until it dared shine again.” Hope was giddy

“And now that glimmer cuts deeper than any wound of war. He’s holding it as it cuts, using it to slice, but it slices you deeper” Desperation was growing

“She heals what she touches, even the destroyer. She woke up a tender part that needed to be seen but hid and fought to stay away. Too hurt for anyone to touch again. But now it's awake, and seeks her. You took her away from it” Explained love, patiently

Avoiding her would make the feelings fade, like a flame left without air. Cullen might persuade her to fall in love with him, and she would stop feeling anything for Solas. Every time he saw Cullen near her, his heart dropped, and a senseless rage built within him. They weren’t together;  She was free to do as she pleased. Yet, she seemed embarrassed by those moments with Cullen; he saw no trace of love in her eyes, no trace of the way she looked at him mere days ago. Reminiscing was useless. The dark satisfaction was too. It wouldn’t help him forget her. He had to believe that eventually, she would look at Cullen that way and take care of his own feelings. It would make everything easier. He kept repeating himself that, but it kept not working. He could do nothing but sully her. He needed to let her be.

When he was summoned to her quarters, the first, instinctive reaction of his heart was happiness. The people of Arlathan would laugh at seeing the mighty Fen’Harel like this. If the Dalish knew that the monster of their culture, the Dread Wolf, was obediently hopping at the commands of one of them, what would they think? It was a question he tried to distract himself with as he opened the door.

She sat by her desk, legs crossed, in a simple and comfortable brown robe that hid her body, but couldn’t hide her beauty to him. He had explored as much of that body as he allowed himself to, he could mentally trace it under the garment. She was surrounded by notes, calculations, glyphs, and diagrams. She looked lovely as ever, her white hair cascading freely, draping her body, her lovely features and her piercing green eyes wearing a focused frown that became a delighted smile when she saw him. Her eyes gleamed with a light she had only for him. He missed her. He missed that dangerous woman. But when she saw his mask of coldness, she put her own on, making things easier.

“Hello, Solas. I’m glad to see you’re all right.”

“I am,” he confirmed.

“I summoned you because I wanted your opinion on this Fade spell I’ve concocted.”

He peered curiously at her work, catching hints of her intentions but looking at her for the full picture. She explained in detail how she wanted to use the energies of the Fade to draw the memory of Corypheus out of the assassin in the dungeon. Her idea was complex and well thought out, different from what Vivienne or Dorian might have devised.

“Dorian says it’s the kind of madness only I could get myself into, and that this is more your field.” Her tone signifies that the latest obvious part is a justification for something.

She looked down. “I apologize for asking. I know you don’t wish to see me, but it seems I need your help.” If only she knew that he would gladly seal the door and spend a decade just listening to her talk. But that was the issue. Everything in her attracted him, and that spell was borne of her goodness, a trait he had lost long before the war, if he ever had it. It was her defining trait despite everything she had faced.

“You want to save your assassin?” he asked.

“I...yes.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, shama in her eyes. “And if it works, if a spirit of Faith or Certitude helps us, we could extend this treatment to many of Corypheus’ victims and save them!” she gestured

“Potentially we could restore them to the world, instead of just killing them”

He looked at the diagram because her hopeful face was too much for him to handle. He couldn’t leave Skyhold soon enough. He spent some time analyzing the diagrams; they were impressive. Without the Veil, it would have worked. With it, however...

“How did you come to this conclusion? This resembles...” He paused. 

“Let me guess, something you’ve seen in your journeys in the Fade?” she asked mischievously 

He turned to her, and her cunning cut through him like a knife through butter. She knew he was lying when he said that. Technically, he wasn’t lying because all knowledge was in the Fade. Whatever she saw on his face made her change her expression to coldness again.

“I knew nothing of being a Dreamer before meeting you. I thought of it as a curse. But your teachings have helped me explore the Fade by myself, and I’ve been learning.” She gestured vaguely at the papers that littered the room. “This.” She then resumed talking about how the spell would work, but he wasn’t listening carefully. He was thinking about how she was able to take the little knowledge she has found in the Fade and turned it into all that. How close she was to the truth, how she would learn how to use her Dreamer talents to find out everything. He was worried that one misstep on his part would be enough for her to complete the puzzle.

“Do you think it will work?”

“Yes,” he replied automatically, while actually thinking about the possible ramifications of her growing confidence with the Fade.

-

INQUISITOR

The prison room was dank and dim, the only light coming from a single torch flickering on the wall. The rough stone walls seemed to close in, amplifying the tension that hung thick in the air. The Inquisitor stood at the center, her heart pounding as she prepared for what was to come. Solas was beside her, his expression a mask of calm determination, his fingers already tracing complex glyphs in the air.

The assassin lay bound to a sturdy wooden chair, her wrists and ankles shackled with heavy iron chains. Her eyes glinted with a mixture of defiance and fear, darting between the Inquisitor and Solas. She struggled against her bonds, but they held fast.

"Are you ready?" Solas asked, his voice low and steady.

The Inquisitor nodded, steeling herself.

“My Lord, My God, embrace me and bring these fools to their just end” Ranted the assassin, spatting at Nuria. She paid no mind, turning to Solas.

He gave a solemn nod, and together, they began to channel their magic. The Inquisitor felt the familiar pull of the Fade as she reached out to the spirit realm, her senses tingling with the energy that filled the room. Solas mirrored her movements, drawing from the same source. She was picking at the essence of Faith from the Fade just beyond the Veil and in that woman, looking to connect, extract.

The assassin began to thrash in her chair, her body convulsing as the magic took hold. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and a guttural scream tore from her throat. The Inquisitor's heart clenched, but she pushed on, focusing on the spell, willing it to work.

Solas moved closer, his voice rising in an ancient Elvhen chant. The glyphs he had drawn in the air glowed brighter, casting eerie shadows on the assassin's contorted face. The room hummed with power, the air vibrating with the intensity of their combined magic.

But something was wrong.

The assassin's screams grew louder, her body bucking violently against the chains.

"Solas, something's not right," the Inquisitor said, her voice strained.

"I feel it too," Solas replied, his brow furrowed with concentration. "He's fighting us."

The Inquisitor gritted her teeth, pouring more of her will into the spell, trying to push back against the darkness. But Corypheus was too strong. His presence surged, overwhelming their efforts, turning their magic against them.

The assassin's body went rigid, her thrashing cutting off abruptly. For a moment, there was a terrible silence. Then she began to convulse, her limbs jerking uncontrollably. Foam frothed at her mouth, and her eyes fluttered, unfocused and wild.

"Stop! We have to stop!" the Inquisitor shouted, breaking the spell and rushing to the assassin's side.

Solas hesitated, his face pale, before he too ceased his chanting. The glow of the glyphs faded, plunging the room into near darkness. The guards rushed forward, holding the assassin down as best they could.

"What have I done?" the Inquisitor whispered, horror clawing at her heart, settling behind her eyes.

Solas knelt beside the assassin, his hands hovering over her, his expression cold. "Corypheus' hold was too strong. We couldn't break it."

The assassin's convulsions slowed, but she was left twitching, her breaths coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes were unfocused, staring at nothing. The Inquisitor reached out, her fingers brushing the woman's feverish forehead.

"I failed," she said, her voice barely audible. “This…I feel no connection to the Fade, but it’s different than a Tranquil”

Solas looked at her, his eyes remorseful. " We tried. Sometimes, even our best efforts are not enough."

The Inquisitor swallowed hard, shaking her head. She swallowed again, trying desperately to keep breathing.

The assassin's twitching subsided into a series of shallow, uneven breaths. The room was thick with a palpable sense of defeat. The Inquisitor, still kneeling beside the woman, looked up at Solas with a mixture of desperation and helplessness.

"We can't leave her like this," she whispered, her voice breaking.

Solas nodded, his face cold. He placed a gentle hand on the Inquisitor's shoulder. She looked at him, not sure what he was trying to do with that touch. Consoling her? Himself? He was cold and unmoving as a statue. Before she could say anything, he was moving to the assassin's side. His eyes were dark with a determination born from years of hard choices and sacrifices.

"Sometimes," he said softly, almost to himself, "the kindest thing we can offer is peace."

The Inquisitor's eyes widened as she understood his intention. This was a mercy, a final act of compassion for a woman who had been twisted and broken by Corypheus' dark influence.

Solas began to chant softly, his voice a soothing melody that filled the room with a gentle hum. He placed his hands on either side of the assassin's head, his fingers glowing with a soft, blue light. The Inquisitor watched, her heart aching, as Solas' magic flowed into the woman, enveloping her in a serene aura.

The assassin's breathing slowed, her body relaxing under Solas' touch. Her eyes, once wild and unfocused, now closed peacefully. The Inquisitor could see the tension easing from her features, the pain and fear giving way to a calm expression.

"It will be quick," Solas assured her, his voice steady but tinged with sadness. "She will feel no pain."

The Inquisitor nodded, tears streaming down her cheeks. She reached out, taking the assassin's hand in hers, squeezing it gently. "I'm so sorry," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We tried."

Solas' chanting grew softer, and the blue light intensified for a moment before fading away. The assassin's chest rose and fell one last time, and then she was still.

"It is done," he said quietly.

The Inquisitor bowed her head, a silent moment of mourning for a life lost, not to the blade, but to the darkness that had claimed her soul.

“I'm sorry” she whispered to both, her mind feeling light, being replaced by a static hiss, a crackle, a buzz. Light enough that reality couldn’t touch, thoughts couldn’t reach, feelings couldn’t hurt. Only noise. Crackle, hiss, buzz. Not now. She felt the noise spreading through her body. Crackle, hiss, buzz, all thorough her.

As they stepped out of the cell, hiss, the Inquisitor's breath began to hitch. Her chest tightened, the buzz tidal wave overcoming her body as her mind kept floating away and away, the white noise detaching her from her limbs. Crackle. As two soldiers entered the cell to retrieve the corpse, the cold, stone corridors of the prison seemed to close in, the weight of their failure pressing down on her with suffocating force. Floating, Hiss. Buzz. floating higher, her breaths ragged and far away, her limbs too. Monster. How do you use them? How do you see? Float further. Not now.

She gasped, her vision blurring, crackle, crackle, hiss, trying to get as far away from the cell as possible. She was floating buzz, crackle, and burning, her breaths too quick. Hiss. Not now. Buzz. Her mind floating. Not now. Crackle. Her body burning, crackle, hissing, crackling, buzzing. Not. Now. Hiss, hiss. Solas turned to her immediately, she could barely register it. Crackle. Not now, crackle not in front of him. Monster, Hiss. Push it in, push it down. Her breaths got worse. He took a look and knew. She had never been like that in front of him. And especially now she shouldn’t be. You’re hiss a mage, buzz you’re in crackle control. Hiss. But her body didn’t listen. She touched the wall, her crackling hand didn’t feel her stone, crackle, crackle, her digits were filled with the crackling, too full to feel anything else. Buzz. Buzz. She struggled to form thoughts. 

Hiss, Crackle, Buzz. Away. Private. Somewhere. Hiss, Hiss, HISS. Her eyes struggled to see as she looked, her body to move and escape, but her feet barely felt like a thing. Crackle. Solas gently took her arm, she felt the pressure but not the feeling. Buzz. She told her body to move away, but it stopped to feel like a thing. Hiss. Away. Away from him. Crackle. Push it down. Hiss. Push. Buzz. It. MONSTER. DOWN. Somewhere. Her body finally moved, hiss, but not where she told it to. It was him. Guiding her away. The stone was moving, hiss, crackle, buzz. 

"Inquisitor, focus on my voice," he said, his tone soothing but firm. "Breathe with me. In and out. Slowly."

Her ears don't understand. Her body was too far away. The hiss too loud, the crackle too intense, the buzz deafening. Her mind was floating. Her body was gone.

SOLAS

Nuria tried to follow his instructions, but her breaths came in short, shallow bursts, her panic spiraling out of control. Solas tightened his grip on her arm, leading her into a nearby infirmary room. She struggled to walk. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of mage lights casting a warm, calming light. The other only light in the room was her anchor, crackling dangerously.

He helped her to sit onto a cot, his hands steady and reassuring as he cupped her face in his hands. "Look at me. You're safe here."

She stared at nothing, her breaths still erratic. The anchor was becoming louder and emitting a stronger light.

"I did... I... Oh, creators," she gasped, her words escaping her mouth forcefully, painfully, like they were being shredded inside her before she even managed to speak them. Her breathing grew worse. 

Seeing her like this hurt him deeply, every breath that was too quick and erratic a dagger to his heart. He knew spells would not settle her spirit—not in this wretched world he created where magic was broken, like everything else. Her frantic grip on his sleeve jolted him from his memories, a silent plea for help, or to grab onto something that felt real, reassuring. Then she tried pushing him away. Her breaths quickened, and she could no longer talk. He knelt with the full intention of doing something else, but before he could form a coherent thought, she was in his arms, cradled in his embrace, one hand on her back, the other supporting her head, her ear a breath away from his mouth.

"I am here, all is well" he whispered. After an initial attempt at pushing him away again, she hugged him back, trembling but strong, her breaths still excessively fast. They were both kneeling on the hard ground now, she half-slumped on him, supported only by his body. 

"You conjured new magic designed to save people that no one else would have cared to save. Anyone else would have just killed her without a second thought. Instead, you're here in this state because you were unable to save an assassin who almost killed you." He took a breath as she shook her head weakly. Her breathing was out of control. 

“You don’t have to tell me anything, we can stay like this as long as you need” It was her words for him on other nights where he needed comfort. He never needed to tell her that. She hid. Even from him. He tightened his grip. He started shushing slowly.

Her breaths became slightly more even after a while, enough for her to be able to form coherent words.

"Sometimes…I feel I can on…only make mistakes.” her breaths become more ragged again, he gently strokes her back. 

Her breaths calm a bit again “Every…every alternative was just... worse. I had to try," she said, her voice breaking. Her breaths become faster once again, broken, like her voice.

Her words struck a chord deep within him, echoing the many times he had faced the same thoughts. How often had he wrestled with the idea of doing right, only to be haunted by the consequences? The war, Mythal’s murder, the Veil, his Foci. In some ways, they were so similar, and yet she was so different in the best ways. He planted a soft kiss on her forehead. How could the Dalish have made someone like her? 

"I made you...I'm sorry" she says between breaths, before they become quicker, more ragged again. 

"Forgive me" she whispers and Solas shakes his head

“You sought a path beyond what others could envision. It is alright, vhenan. I am here with you. All will be well."

He almost didn’t realize that he had called her "vhenan" again or that he had been talking while stroking her hair and planting soft kisses on her forehead. But her breaths were calming, becoming more even. He couldn’t see her expression, buried as she was in his chest, but having her in his arms like this made him feel happy. What a selfish feeling love was. What a selfish man he was. Only this morning, he had it all figured out, and now Mythal herself couldn’t pry her away from his arms. He was her killer, doomed to love her, doomed to end her. The anchor kept cracking dangerously. That was the mark of her death, claiming her life day after day.

As he held her, the scent of resins and flowers—so distinctly hers—mingled with the warmth of her presence. His mind drifted to a memory, a lesson from the ancient Elvhen times, before he had deemed it too dangerous for her to fully grasp.

-

Nuria , frustrated at her own incompetence, lets out a grunt and lets her head fall onto the table, her hands covering her head as if to shield herself from her mistake.

"Gal-galg" she mutters, her voice muffled by the wooden surface.

“Gal’hgan" Solas repeats patiently, a hint of amusement in his tone. He admires her endless determination, even when she pouts like a child.

"Shouldn’t it all be natural to me? I’m an elf," she says, her forehead still pressed against the table, her eyes closed in frustration.

"You asked the question to the table, but I’ll take it upon myself to reply all the same, if that’s alright," Solas responds jokingly.

She raises her head, her expression a mix of irritation and pouty defiance, yet still irresistibly endearing. Solas can’t help but smile at her. He uses a finger to gently lift her chin, leaning in for a soft kiss. Sometimes, she’s just too tempting, like a ripe fruit hanging from a tree.

He holds her gaze for an intense moment. Being alone with her in her chambers is both a blessing and a curse. It would be so easy to let himself forget the past and the future, to lose himself in the overwhelming love he feels. But he can’t do that to her. She doesn’t even know his true identity. A pang of pain hits his chest. He cannot lose himself to his desires and deceive her. She deserves better. She deserves honesty.

Seeing his face color with worry, she asks, "Was it Gah…? Gahl?"

Her serious effort to distract him is endlessly endearing. Her curious mind was one of the first things that impressed him about her. For a few seconds, he allows himself to admire her features: her slender, graceful frame, the way she tucks a long strand of white hair behind her ear, her brilliant eyes and delicate features. He had noticed these things long before they had even spoken.

"There’s a song that could help," he says, breaking the silence.

"You sing?" she asks, almost offended by the notion. They’ve known each other for months, and he’s never mentioned singing.

"Don’t your people love songs? There is one. And it’s easier to learn new sounds through song." He straightens his back, creating a bit of distance between them, enough for him to think clearly.

"What is it about?" she asks, her curiosity piqued.

He smirks mischievously. "Let’s test your hearing comprehension."

-

With the shock still searing her soul and her breaths coming in short gasps, Solas begins to sing quietly in her ear, the same song he sang that time. It’s a war song, sung from the perspective of a soldier returning home to his beloved after the war. He’s changed, he lost bits of himself, and doesn’t know if his beloved will accept him back as he is. But he is coming back, his love the only thing that allowed him to survive.

The song's rhythm is gentle, almost hypnotic, as he sings it softly into the quiet of the room. The melody weaves a tapestry of deep feelings that refuse to fade, meant to soothe and calm. His voice, tender and melodic, wraps around her like a protective blanket.

“Will you love me when I’m broken,

When the nights are long and cold?

Will you see the man you knew before,

In this weary soul grown old?

I’m coming back to you, my love,

With what’s left of me to give,

Your love is all that carried me,

And it's all that helps me live.”

As the song continues, her breathing begins to steady, her anxiety slowly ebbing away with each note. Her body relaxes further against him, the tension in her shoulders easing. Solas watches her with a mix of relief and tenderness, the song providing a balm for her troubled mind.

I’m coming home, but I’m not the same,

Broken and scarred, I carry the blame.

I may be a broken monster

But in your arms I’ll find a shelter

I fought for our future, but at such a cost.

Will you still love me, with all that I’ve lost?

When the song reaches its gentle conclusion, he allows the silence to settle for a moment, letting the calm after the melody envelop them. His heart soars and aches as he sees her eyes fluttering closed, the strain of her earlier distress giving way to the peaceful embrace of sleep.

Her breaths finally become even and relaxed. He keeps singing until she slumps completely, falling asleep in his arms. Holding her close, he allows himself to embrace his feelings for the first time in weeks. As he strokes her hair, he whispers in her ear all the things he could never tell her when she is awake. He confesses his crimes, his fears and hopes, the dreams that could never be, all of his plans, and above all, how much he loves her and how much he wishes that he could be just a man that could be with her, how he could only dream nightmares of the dead and his misdeeds, unless she was in his arms. He tells her how she has made the whole world change time and time again. He also tells her that he needs to forget their love to save the world and destroy hers.

When he's bared his heart to her, he leaves. He is a coward after all.

END OF THE INTRODUCTION

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

She woke with a start, the sterile scent of the sickroom filling her senses. Cullen’s voice was soft but insistent, and she jerked upright, her eyes darting around. Solas wasn’t here. The empty space around her ached, and the familiar pang of longing and hurt gnawed at her chest. Her throat hurted from her breathing last night, but the white static noise was gone. Her body felt hers again, she could move her limbs freely. She wiggled her toes, just to be sure.

She didn’t think anything would change after last night, she could hardly feel anything other than the noise, yet hearing Solas calling her vhenan, his embrace, his voice, made her feel whole in a way she hasn't felt since Crestwood. It had been months since she last broke down like that. Last time she was able to hide away and deal with it alone. 

“Are you alright?” Cullen's voice was gentle, concerned as he crouches beside her, his eyes searching hers. She didn’t have time to process it all. His face was a mixture of genuine worry and the kind of tenderness she was slowly becoming accustomed to. She blinked, her surroundings coming into sharper focus.

“I am, I just…” Her voice faltered, her mind racing through the fragmented memories of the night.

“Solas told me that after the ritual you needed rest, so I came as soon as I could” Cullen explained, his gaze never leaving her. She pressed a hand on her head, there was still a weirdness there. And in that dungeon she could only smell faint mildew and rubbing alcohol. It felt out of time. It didn’t smell like him anymore.

“Is it still night?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Speaking hurts.

“The sun’s just coming up. He left”

Solas left. A hole in her stomach. She felt a confusing mix of relief and disappointment. Cullen’s hand, warm and strong, gently covered hers, and he presses his lips to it in a gesture both comforting and intimate. A part of her ached at the thought of how easy life could be if she could lose herself in him. The thought of Cullen’s steadfast presence and unwavering support was both comforting and disquieting. She didn’t want to lead him on, he didn’t deserve to be hurt.

“Sorry” Cullen murmurs, releasing her hand as he looked at her expression. The moment he let go, the void in her chest widened. She caught his hand again, drawing it to her cheek. The roughness of his soldier’s palm was grounding, the warmth of it slowly thawing the ice that had settled in her heart. The void was still there, but it felt less painful now. She held his gaze, seeing in his eyes a hope, love and kindness that she knew she couldn’t dismiss lightly.

As she looked at Cullen, she felt hope. She had to believe she could move on past him, especially now that they would be apart for weeks. She had to believe that she could find happiness. And maybe happiness hides in those gentle eyes, in the kind, rough hand stroking her cheek, the callouses grounding her in the here and now. A here and now that hurts. Cullen tried to get closer, taking her gesture as an invitation, but when he leaned in, Nuria instinctively shot back.

“It’s just…” she started, her voice trembling. Her throat still hurt, it was uncomfortable, but that’s the least of their problems.

“I understand” Cullen replied softly. “I’m here for you, whenever you’re ready. I will make good on my promise”

She exhaled a shaky breath, feeling a knot slowly unravel in her chest. The idea of letting herself fall for Cullen was tempting, yet every fiber of her being still ached for Solas. Perhaps, in time, she could learn to embrace him, to find love and comfort in Cullen’s presence. But for now, there was room for no one else. She nodded slowly, in acknowledgement of his promise, avoiding his gaze.

-

The gardens of Skyhold were a tranquil haven in the heart of the fortress, a serene expanse where the people of Skyhold could find momentary reprieve. This afternoon, the sun cast a warm, golden hue over the blooming flowers and lush greenery, creating a picturesque scene of playful innocence. The garden flourished despite the cold, and in that quiet corner Nuria could breathe a bit of home. Feeling the dirt under her feet made the world feel real once more. Feeling the warm sun on her skin, her retina burning, made her feel a creature of the world again. In the midst of this peaceful setting, Mina and Henry laughed and chased after Kieran, who was smiling brighter than she had ever seen. When he played like that, he looked like any other boy, and when his mother watched him, she looked almost like any other mother.

In a quiet corner of the garden, the Inquisitor and Morrigan sat on a stone bench, the witch was focused on the scene before her, and she looked like she was trying not to smile, while the Inquisitor was taking it all in, including that weird creature, a person that defied her expectations every time they talked. 

“Morrigan,” the Inquisitor began, her eyes lingering on Kieran and the children, “You mentioned that Mythal has taken an interest in me. Do you know why?”

Morrigan’s eyes held a shadow of something darker as she answered. “No. She tells me not about her plans and intentions. Her attention is not a matter to be taken lightly. The fact that she has taken notice of you enough to order me around tis… significant, though her reasons are often worse than you could imagine.”

The Inquisitor’s gaze wandered back to the children, troubled. Kieran has taken the boy on his shoulder, much to Henry’s delight. The little one is reaching out for an out of season flower that has blessed a tree with low hanging branches. “And what does it mean to attract her attention?”

Morrigan’s face hardened slightly, “It means that you are entwined with forces far beyond your control. Mythal’s favor—or her ire—can shape destinies in ways that are both wondrous and perilous. I have experienced both sides of her influence.”

Morrigan’s gaze grew distant, her eyes reflecting the burden of her past. “When I was young, she bestowed upon me knowledge that was both a gift and a chain. She broke me and rebuilt me, she molded me until I didn’t know who I was, and when I thought I did know, I found out that it was her still that guided my actions.” 

The witch pauses looking at the kids examining the purple flower with wonder. Her sigh was heavy “The Well. She influenced me into my deep love for ancient lore, and that same love bound me to her for eternity. She didn’t need to make me take that decision. I did so gladly, defiantly, thinking me the wisest, the most informed.  She manipulated my path, until my choices were hers. Her attention is a double-edged sword, and I had to navigate the perilous terrain it created. I still have to and I will have to, forever”

Morrigan’s expression softened momentarily as she glanced at Kieran and the children. “Mythal’s attention can be both a burden and a beacon.”

The Inquisitor’s heart ached with empathy and smiled softly inclining her head “What should I do? How can I protect myself from the dangers you faced?”

Morrigan’s gaze met hers with a mixture of concern and determination. “Be vigilant and trust none.”

The Inquisitor shuddered, listening to Morrigan's advice but knowing that it wasn’t her nature. She caught up.

“You are a creature different from me. Maybe you will find something else will work. Tis not for me to say”

She turned her gaze back to the garden, where Kieran and the children’s laughter echoed. Had she ever experienced something like that? Was she living what it meant to be a child while watching her own? Nuria wondered what a life led by Mythal could look like for a child, she could never ask. She turned to the kids. Mina looked at Henry with that tinge of anxiety of a parent first learning that they will not be able to protect their child from the world. It didn’t belong on that face, too young, and yet it was there, an anomaly on these features that marked the loss of innocence. 

Forgetting the attack didn’t remove the sting of loss, the knowledge that they were now orphans, and that she was the only protector Henry had left. Nuria sighed heavily. She was that girl once. She was the girl that picked up her brother when he fell and wailed for a mother that would never come. Varian. She missed him, her little brother, and as she did everyday, she wondered what he was doing, if he was happy, how he has changed since they last saw each other. Kirkwall was in the vicinity of Wycome, but seeing him, showing herself as she was now...impossible. Another pang. Keep him away and safe. Think of the mission and he'll live a long life.

“Thank you, Morrigan,” the Inquisitor said softly. “I’ll approach whatever comes with caution.”

Morrigan offered a brief nod “Let’s hope tis enough”. 

As the sun continued its descent, casting long shadows over the garden, the two women sat together in silence, only interrupted by a wandering Andrastian asking for the Herald’s blessings. As Nuria gently directed him to Mother Giselle Morrigan asked

“How do you stand it? And respond so graciously? I would have burned a couple already”

Nuria chuckled “People need hope. But I have no desire to be a symbol of their faith, so if it’s faith they want, I’ll direct them to someone that can provide that”

"Still" Morrigan replied with humor "If you set fire to just one, I'm sure you won't have people surrounding you like in Orlais. You could walk freely without anyone asking you to bless their child"

-

It was almost time to go, today was her last afternoon in Skyhold for who knows how long. She chose to spend it with Dorian, despite Cullen’s sweet protest. The afternoon sun poured through the heavy drapes of the Inquisitor’s chambers, casting a warm glow across the room. The soft light illuminated the collection of plants, Dalish trinkets, herbs left to dry and the collection of books that lined the walls. In the balcony, on two solid decorated wooden chairs the Inquisitor and Dorian sat beside each other, a quiet intimacy hanging between them. They had discussed the plans for Kirkwall, Dorian’s hesitation about leaving his partner behind and Nuria’s own frustration with her love triangle, and were now just chatting about magic and the Fade, sharing each other’s perspective on the topic.

Half of the time Dorian's eyes were focused on a small, intricately carved box he held in his hands. Nuria believed the box to be a gift Bull gave him, and waited for her friend to talk about it. However, with a careful gesture, he opened the box to reveal a delicate elven sending stone. The red stone glimmered faintly, its surface etched with arcane runes that seemed to dance in the shifting light.

“I thought you might find this useful,” Dorian said, his voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of emotion. He held the stone out to the Inquisitor. “It’s a sending stone. It will allow us to stay in touch, no matter where fate leads us.” There was a little pride in his feature, a cover that she could easily look through to see the emotions it hid: her friend was more fragile than he let on, a good man that had been refused, cast aside for who he was from the people that should have welcomed him the most. He was afraid to be refused again, an automatic response to opening up, but she would never be that person, never hurt him.

She smiled and took the stone gently, her fingers brushing against his. She looked up at him, her eyes soft with gratitude. “Thank you Dorian, you didn’t have to—”

“I know,” Dorian interrupted, his tone lighter now, though his eyes betrayed a depth he couldn’t sustain without some humor masking it. “But I wanted to. As you said, I’m just a good friend. Also, of course, it will aid the mission. Don't flatter yourself too much.”

She smiled and kissed his cheek, holding him close

“We wouldn’t want anyone to think that you love me or something now, would we?”

A silence fell between them, filled with the weight of their unlikely friendship that has grown into something profound, more than either of them could have imagined. The Inquisitor studied Dorian’s face, seeing the vulnerability that he rarely displayed. “You’ve been an incredible friend through everything,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I could ever thank you enough for that.”

Dorian’s lips curled into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, you could start by not talking like a martyr about to go to her death. In your grand tales of heroism, I prefer to think of yourself as a dashing and modest hero, not a tragic figure.”

Nuria chuckled softly, the tension easing just a little. She placed the sending stone carefully on a nearby table and hugged him. “It means a lot to me,” she said, her voice earnest. “And I promise I’ll use it to stay in touch. Even if I have to go to the ends of the world, I’ll make sure you hear from me.”

Dorian’s expression softened, tightening the hug. “And I will do the same”

She smiled “Besides, I can always find you in the Fade, I think I could reach you, if you like.”

He cleared his throat, “If you do find me in the Fade, you might learn a thing or two that might break your innocent mind.”

The Inquisitor laughed, shaking her head. “Dalish clans offer little in the way of privacy, I’ll let you know. I may not have done the deed, but I don’t believe that Mythal is the one placing a child in a woman’s belly anymore. But…I think I’ll pass on the lewd dreams, thank you very much.”

Dorian’s laughter joined hers, the sound ringing with genuine warmth. He stopped for a few seconds before hugging her again “Just…be careful out there, all right? And don’t get tangled too much in Cullen’s quest for your heart. You don’t owe anything to anyone, remember that.”

Nuria gave him a squeeze. “I’ll keep that in mind”

Then they broke the hug, still smiling. Dorian’s eyes softened again, though the playful spark remained. “And of course I’m saying this just out of the goodness of my heart. It’s not at all a plot to slowly lead you to be my cover wife”

The two friends stood together in the afternoon light, their shared laughter a balm for the emotional weight of their parting. The sending stone on the table gleamed softly, a symbol of their enduring bond.

-

The Inquisitor spent the early night meticulously checking her equipment for the mission. She had to set aside her beloved Dalish clothes and the comfort of being barefoot, in favor of the official Inquisition rogue uniform, complete with boots. She had already dyed her hair a copper red, a practical choice given the ease of obtaining the necessary herbs compared to her natural black. She wanted to be thoroughly prepared for this journey, not knowing what challenges lay ahead.

She packed a small satchel with her most prized possessions: her cherished necklace, which she was not ready to part with again after such a short time; her mini altar kit, carefully hidden in a smaller satchel; the sending stone, and the book Cullen had given her. Other essentials, such as herbs for her dye, basic medicinal herbs, and resins for potions and balms, were stowed in her larger equipment bag.

When she realized she couldn’t sleep, she found herself wandering to the rotunda almost unconsciously. She missed Solas terribly, despite her efforts to distract herself, the echo of his velvety voice still in her ears. In the quiet of the night, she spent time observing his paintings, touching the signs of brush strokes, and picturing his focused expression as he worked, how he would sometimes bite his lower lip when working on a difficult detail, how he would stretch with a satisfied smile after completing something he was proud of. With a sigh, she glanced at his desk. She had never looked through it before, but her longing for him overcame her restraint. She sat in his chair, inhaling the faint scent of him that lingered there. The desk was empty on the surface, but when she opened the drawers, hoping to find some remnant of him, she discovered a pile of parchment hastily shuffled through. Among the complicated diagrams and notes in his distinctive elegant handwriting, mostly in ancient Elvhen, she found a portrait of herself. It was still partially wet and a bit smeared, but it was her. She was smiling happily, faintly blushing, eyes filled with love.

Tears welled up as she stared at the portrait, and she started silently crying. What could be so significant to keep them apart if he painted her like that? Why didn’t he trust her? She stared, stunned at the portrait. He must have made this shortly before leaving. If he still felt the need of drawing her like that, why? She tucked the picture into her small satchel when she returned to her room, on a mad quest to keep even a small part of him with her. It made no sense. It meant doing exactly the opposite of what she needed to do, but she dried carefully the ink with magic, and while damning her stupidity and stubbornness the whole time, tucked it away with reverence.

That night, when she finally slept, she prepared even in the Fade, setting up ally spirits to watch for anything relevant to the mission and reviewing plans, names, and information. One came back only to say “My lips are sealed” over and over before giving up and leaving. That happened sometimes, other times it was just a black fog when she tried to explore something. Some information was not willing to show itself to her. She previously attributed it to inexperience, but she started sensing a pattern that would gnaw at the back of her mind, like she had the answer to a question her brain didn’t dare ask. It was always something regarding the Creators. But why?

-

When the morning sun rose over Skyhold, casting its golden light across the bustling courtyard, she was already awake. The air buzzed with a mixture of anticipation and tension as the Inquisition readied itself for its dual mission to Kirkwall. Soldiers polished their armor, mages reviewed their spells, and spies exchanged covert nods. It was a day of both preparation and subterfuge, where every detail had to be meticulously planned.

Despite the whirlwind of activity, she felt a strange calm, grounded by the precious items in her satchel, her most beloved possessions telling the story of the people most dear to her. It was a grounding and humbling feeling, a reminder of who she fought for, even as she looked at the mirror to see a stranger.

-

In the heart of the fortress, within the War Room, the Inquisitor stood with her advisors around a large, intricately detailed map of Kirkwall. Nuria, calculating, pointed to various strategic points on the map, her eyes sharp.

"We have two goals," the Inquisitor began, her voice steady. "The public mission is diplomatic. We are to meet with Kirkwall's leadership to investigate Meredith’s statue disappearance. This will be highly visible and under intense scrutiny."

Josephine nodded in agreement. "Indeed. Our presence must be strong and dignified. Cullen is ready."

Nuria's gaze turned more intense as she continued. "Simultaneously, we have a covert mission. Our spies need to learn what’s really going on in Kirkwall, and if Corypheus is involved, stop him. This is where the danger lies. We cannot risk being discovered, or the whole operation will fail."

Nuria looked at the group in the room, and after a moment, added  "And this is where our ruse comes in," she said, her eyes shifting to a young woman standing nervously at the edge of the table, taking in the new information.

"Come forward, Maeve," the Inquisitor called gently, beckoning the girl to join them.

Maeve stepped forward, her movements hesitant but her face lit with a bright smile. She was petite, with a youthful face framed by chestnut curls, and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm. From a distance she could resemble the Inquisitor, especially with Vallaslin.

"Maeve," Josephine said warmly, placing a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. "You have an important role to play. You will be the Inquisitor in the eyes of those who watch, staying behind and maintaining the illusion that you are recovering from an illness. You’re joining this meeting because I want you to understand the importance of this mission, and of your role."

Maeve nodded eagerly. "Yes, my lady. I understand. I am ready."

The Inquisitor smiled at her. "You will be well taken care of, Maeve. You will be in my chambers, and you will have everything you need. Your task is to rest and enjoy the comforts of Skyhold, we will provide the means to entertain yourself however you wish to. You may have to appear around the castle sometimes, to avoid rumors of my early death, but Leliana will instruct you closely about that"

Maeve's eyes widened at the promise of luxury, a promise loud enough to deafen the fear of impersonating someone that has almost died of a blade in the back recently.. "I've never lived in such a place before. It's like a dream come true."

Cullen stepped forward, his expression serious but kind. "We are entrusting you with a great responsibility, Maeve. Your role is crucial to the success of our missions. We need you to stay safe and act convincingly." He reminded her of the reality of the situation, but when she looked at the commander Maeve's smile broadened and she blush faintly, straightening her back in a show of confidence. "I won't let you down, Commander."

As preparations continued, Maeve was escorted to her new quarters. The Inquisitor room was opulent, with a large canopy bed draped in rich fabrics, a warm hearth, and windows that offered a breathtaking view of the mountains. She ran her fingers over the plush blankets, her heart swelling with joy. It was a far cry from the cramped and noisy tavern where she had worked. Being cooped in in such a place, attended to and paid, was more than she could have ever wished for.

As the Inquisitor prepared to leave, she took one last look at Maeve, who was settling into her new role with evident delight.

"Remember, Maeve," the Inquisitor said softly, "Your safety is paramount. Enjoy the rest, and know that you are helping the Inquisition in a vital way. Always wear your wig or a head covering, you never know who’s watching"

Maeve beamed, her cheeks flushed with happiness. "Thank you, my lady. I will do my best."

The courtyard buzzed with the sound of clinking armor and hushed conversations, the dual nature of the mission setting a charged atmosphere.

As the Inquisition's forces moved out, the spies blended with the rest of soldiers easily, some were actually part of the force, so the dual nature of the mission could stay concealed. And so, the Inquisition's dual mission to Kirkwall began

Chapter Text

SOLAS

Solas reached the outskirts of Kirkwall as the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the landscape. The city loomed ahead, its towering structures and spires a stark contrast to the more familiar wilds and ruins he was used to. The architecture of the city was new to him, and it really shows that it once was a prison. With him were four soldiers from the Inquisition, a mixed group whose company he had found both manageable and, to some extent, amusing.

Two of the soldiers, young and rowdy elves, reminded Solas of himself in his youth. Their names were Loran and Fedin, and their banter and energy were a constant source of both irritation and nostalgia. They were supposed to join him when he would enter phase two of his mission. The other two were a human named Garret, a seasoned warrior with a stoic demeanor, and a dwarf named Dod, an axe-bearing burly warrior that laughed with the two younger ones.

As they approached an ancient, crumbling temple on the outskirts of the city, Solas could feel a faint but familiar hum of power. It resonated through the stones, a whisper of his past lingering in the present. This was one of his residences, a place he had once known intimately before Mythal's death. There was no prison city looming around before, no feeling of a heavily charged Fade emanating from that distance. He made up an excuse about needing to study the Veil here and ordered the group to make camp.

As the group settled in for the night, Solas could feel the power in the temple calling to him. It was a small remnant, a fragment of what had once been, but it was enough to make him more powerful than most mages in this world. The soldiers, weary from their journey, soon drifted into sleep, their quiet breaths mingling with the sounds of the night.

Solas waited until he was sure they were all asleep before slipping away, moving silently through the ancient halls of the temple. The passageways were familiar, each stone and corridor a reminder of a time long past. This had been one of his homes, and he navigated the labyrinthine structure with ease, his steps guided by memory.

In the heart of the temple, he found what he was looking for: a small fountain with a statue in the center, a mockery of Andruil. They had played games, he and Andruil, stealing scraps of power from each other and hiding them away. This fountain was one such hiding place, a repository of a power he had once deemed too insignificant to reclaim.

Solas approached the ancient fountain, its worn edges overgrown with moss, and placed his hand on the cold, stone surface of the statue that crowned it. The figure, a forgotten relic of an older time, seemed almost to pulse beneath his touch. He whispered the incantation, his voice soft yet firm, commanding the dormant power within to awaken for its master. The response was immediate and almost eager, like a mischievous child finally released from a tedious chore, eager to return to play.

The energy within the fountain surged into Solas, flowing through his veins like a long-forgotten melody, resonating with his very being. It felt as though a shroud had been lifted, a burden he hadn’t even realized he was carrying until it was gone. His senses sharpened, the dull ache that had settled into his muscles after days of travel and hidden worries evaporating in an instant. His mind, once fogged with fatigue, cleared with a startling clarity. His body, which had been wearied by the constant demands of their journey, now hummed with newfound vitality, muscles tensing and releasing as though testing their restored strength.

It was not enough, he knew. This power, though potent compared to the weakness that plagued him before, was still but a fraction of what he was, what he would need to stand against Mythal's remnant, if it came to that. 

Solas allowed himself a moment to savor this newfound strength before he turned away from the fountain, his hand slipping from the statue's cold grip. The night was still dark, the camp quiet except for the faint crackling of the dying fire. He moved through the shadows with practiced ease, returning to the camp as silently as he had left it. The others slept on, unaware of his brief absence, their forms huddled close to the fire for warmth.

He resumed his watch, moving frantically around the camp, his body demanding more than idleness could offer, more than mere pacing could sate. He raised more wards around the camp, more powerful then he could summon just a few hours before, and left to unleash more magic, distant enough that the others couldn’t see or hear, just to have fun, just to test his new limits.

-

As dawn broke over the ancient temple ruins, the first light of morning bathed the surroundings in a gentle golden glow. Solas had been awake for hours, feeling the reclaimed power coursing through his veins, a call of his through self claiming to be seen, to be harnessed, to be played with. It was a drunkenness of sorts, like a first heavy drink after years of abstinence, the first time hearing music after crawling your way in the battlefield for so long that the only sounds that make sense are clangs, shouts and the gurgling of blood before the end. It yearned to be used. For him to be imprudent.

The soldiers stirred, beginning their morning routines. Loran and Fedin sparred at the camp’s edge. Garret, the human, and Dod, the axe-bearing dwarf, shared a quiet conversation over breakfast. Solas watched them, a plan forming in his mind. He willed the Veil to weaken just a bit; he couldn’t do more without arousing suspicion and with limited power, but it was enough to unleash three demons of rage onto the group. It was like pulling a muscle that hasn’t been used for a while, the curiosity and thrill of using your body for what it meant to be used.

The air around them grew heavy, an unnatural heat settling over the camp. Garret was the first to notice, his eyes narrowing as he stood, hand on the hilt of his sword. “Do you feel that?” Before anyone could respond, the ground beneath them trembled. The Veil thinned, he felt the Fade grow closer, and the push of exiled spirits looking to be whole again. With a roar, three rage demons burst forth, their fiery forms crackling with malevolent energy.

The soldiers sprang into action, weapons drawn. Loran and Fedin charged the nearest demon, their movements fluid and coordinated, the siblings wearing twin daggers and twin smiles. Garret took a defensive stance, protecting Dod as he readied his massive axe. The demons were relentless, their attacks wild and furious. One demon swiped at Fedin, its fiery claws narrowly missing him. Loran retaliated with a swift strike, but his blade barely scratched the demon's hardened hide.

Garret swung his sword with all his might, but the demon's fiery form seemed impervious to his attacks. “We can’t hold them off!” he shouted, desperation in his voice. Dod bellowed a battle cry, swinging his axe with ferocious strength. He landed a solid hit on one of the demons, but it barely seemed to notice, turning its fiery wrath on the dwarf.

Solas stood at the edge of the chaos, drawing barriers and willingly controlling his magic so that the group wouldn’t be harmed, but felt the gnaw of fear. When the soldiers were about to be overwhelmed he raised his staff, feeling the familiar surge of magic, stronger than had it been in the last two years. With a powerful incantation, he unleashed a torrent of energy at the nearest demon. The magical blast of pure energy struck the creature, and it howled in pain, its fiery form flickering. Solas pressed his advantage, weaving spells with a precision that spoke of millennia of practice, eased up by the fragment of power he restored.

The first demon fell under his assault, its form dissipating into the ether. The soldiers, heartened by Solas's display of power, fought with renewed vigor. Loran and Fedin managed to drive back the second demon, but it was clear they were tiring. Solas turned his attention to the remaining demons. Summoning a storm of ice shards, he directed them at the creatures, freezing their lava limbs. The demons howled, their rage turning to desperation as the cold sapped their strength. With a final, mighty spell, Solas shattered the ice, and the demons with it. The camp fell silent, the only sound the heavy breathing of the exhausted soldiers. The power he restored was enough to make him what would be considered one of the most powerful mages in this era, probably. But it wasn’t nearly enough. Yet, the group was impressed.

Garret sheathed his sword, his eyes wide with awe. “That was incredible, elf. We owe you our lives.” 

Loran and Fedin exchanged glances, their earlier bravado replaced with genuine respect. “You saved us,” Fedin said, his voice filled with gratitude.

Dod approached, his expression a mix of relief and admiration. He just nodded hartley.

Solas inclined his head, acknowledging their gratitude. “You fought bravely. Together, we can overcome any challenge.”

As the group began to tend to their wounds and recover from the battle, Solas allowed himself a small smile. He had earned their trust through this display of strength and words of encouragement, a trust he could now exploit for his own purposes. Having one more tool for the journey ahead he looked at the map he drew with Leliana. Where to next?

INQUISITOR

The morning sun cast a golden hue over the bustling camp of the Inquisition as soldiers prepared for the mission ahead. The Inquisitor, disguised with different hair color, no vallaslin, and a bob instead of her long hair, moved through the camp, observing her troops. She stayed away from those who might recognize her, blending in among the ranks to better understand her soldiers.

Some of them had joined for money, the promise of a stable income and a chance to send funds back to their families too tempting to resist, especially the non-humans, that would earn more in the Inquisition compared to other organizations. She made a point of having equal wages for all races, and it showed. Humans were still the majority in her forces, given the number of them in Thedas compared to other races, but she had never observed as many dwarves, elves and Tal-Vashot. Others were there for the mission, driven by a desire to see peace restored to Thedas and save the world from the threat of Corypheus. Some truly believed that a heathen had been raised to be the New Bride of the Maker. A few were here because the Inquisitor had saved them, and their loyalty was unwavering. She avoided these, not wanting to be recognized.

She wasn’t alone in this journey, she was going to be accompanied by two women: Zore, her Dalish hunter friend, and Sheranna, a quiet city elf who had once worked as a spy for the Divine under Leliana. Sheranna was inconspicuous, with short brown pixie hair and eyes of a sweet golden brown. The day before, as they sat together around a campfire, the crackling flames providing a sense of warmth and camaraderie. They sat a bit apart from the other soldiers today.

Zore, ever the optimist, grinned at the Inquisitor. "It's good to be out here with you. You’re weird in red though."

The Inquisitor smiled back, mischievously. "You get to pick the color next time."

Sheranna, sitting a bit apart, observed them with a quiet intensity. She rarely spoke, and Nuria wanted to get to know her better. She smiled at Sheranna.

"Sheranna, how did you end up here with us?" the Inquisitor asked gently.

Sheranna's eyes flickered with a hint of surprise at the question. She glanced around the camp before speaking, her voice low and measured. "I was never the talkative type. Talking got me in trouble when I was young."

Zore leaned in, her interest piqued. "What kind of trouble?"

Sheranna's gaze turned distant, as if she were looking back through time. "I grew up in the city alienage of Wycon. Life was hard, and you learned quickly that keeping your head down was the safest way. But I was curious, always asking questions, always wanting to know more."

The Inquisitor nodded, and added. "Curiosity can be dangerous."

Sheranna smiled faintly. "It was. One day, I overheard a Templar plotting with a local noble. They were planning something... something terrible. I tried to warn people, but no one would listen. They thought I was just a foolish rabbit trying to cause trouble."

Zore's eyes widened. "What happened?"

"I was caught. The Templar had me beaten, left for dead in an alley. That's where Leliana found me. She saw something in me, took me in, trained me. I learned to listen, to watch, to gather information without being seen. I became one of her best spies."

The Inquisitor's nods. "You've been through a lot."

Sheranna shrugged, her expression unreadable. "We all have."

There was a moment of silence as they reflected on her words, each focusing on their own past. Nuria was the first to speak, smiling to the city elf "Thank you for sharing, Sheranna,"

Sheranna nodded, a small smile playing at her lips. "Just doing my part."

Zora clapped her hands, breaking the somber mood. "Well, I think we should drink to that!"

And they did. Soldier life was different, her feet hurt in the boots, but overall Nuria was happy to be someone else for a while. Nobody’s hero, nobody’s divine instrument. Just a person.

VARRIC

To him, being back in his home, in Kirkwall, was a feeling beyond mere words. Varric walked through the familiar streets, his boots echoing on the cobblestones. He missed the feeling of the cobblestones of Kirkwall. The city was the same in many ways, but it felt hollow without Hawke. Memories of their adventures haunted him at every corner, and the void left by his absence was palpable. Hawke had stayed behind in the Fade, sacrificing himself to protect his friends, and Varric missed him more than he could express. The city itself had changed a lot. Ever since his involuntary departure the circle of the Magi, one of the few still operating, had become more stable. Or so the people said on the boat on the way there.

Everywhere Varric went, people asked about the Inquisition. Some were genuinely concerned for his well-being, others were merely curious, and a few were fishing for political leverage. Some even asked when he would publish a book about it. Varric put on a show of disdain, claiming he hated it there and that he wasn’t trusted. It was part of the cover, and he enjoyed making up stories anyway. He tried not to make up anything too bad, if anything he said got back to Nuria she would have made that sad puppy face he just couldn’t resist. He heard some rumors about the Inquisitor, and got asked questions about her. People didn’t know what to make of her. Was she truly the New Bride of the Maker? Was she really hooking up with a Tevinter Magister? Is it true that once flowers bloomed where she slept in the forest? Was the Inquisitor actually a man?

Varric did his best to reply, not get caught in anything weird, and dispel the rumors that were just too much. Being a Dalish, she got attached to some nasty ones. 

Of course, there were rumors of her being a blood mage, draining the pure, faithful Andrastians that came to her in terrible rituals. Rumors about her orchestrating it all, and using the good humans in her council like puppets. One particularly funny one was that she exclusively used Qunaris for her blood rituals. Apparently Blood Mage Nuria had preferences.

There were purely sexual ones, of the Inquisitor sleeping her way through the ranks, through her title, through victory using Dalish secret techniques to entrance men and women alike. Of course there were elven women in High Town that offered their services and painted their faces to give patrons a “unique taste” of the Inquisitor. People probably mixed the two up. Those rumors were particularly entertaining to Varric, considering how utterly incapable Glimmer was of perceiving people flirting with her. People flirting with each other? Sure! Scheming? Absolutely. Flirting with her? Never, ‘They’re just friendly.’ He overheard her telling Solas that line one too many times. The face he would make. The face she would make when she realized he was right. Those were the things he had to make sure to include in his novel. He would write one of course. He just had to see it all through the end.

-

Varric had only been back in Kirkwall for a few hours, but it already felt like a lifetime. The familiar smell of saltwater mixed with the ever-present scent of mildew brought memories rushing back, not all of them pleasant. He had hoped to take his time getting reacquainted with his old haunts, maybe drop by the Hanged Man for a drink before diving into whatever mess the Inquisition had sent him to clean up. Instead, he found himself summoned to Viscount Bran's office almost immediately after his arrival. Getting an invitation after being asked yet another thing about the Inquisitor and her plans to “redeem the heatens”. Sure, the Inquisitor would destroy her own people. Made sense.

The guards at the entrance had eyed him with suspicion, but let him through without much fuss. He could feel their stares on his back as he made his way through the grand hallways, their whispers barely audible over the echo of his boots on the stone floors. It wasn’t his first time in the Viscount’s Keep, but it was the first time he’d been here since Bran had taken power. The place had changed—darker, somehow, with more guards and fewer servants.

The heavy wooden doors to Bran’s office loomed ahead, guarded by two soldiers in the Viscount’s livery. They didn’t move as Varric approached, merely nodded curtly and opened the doors for him.

Inside, the room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the tall windows that offered a view of Kirkwall’s crumbling skyline. The decor was austere, almost cold, lacking the warmth it once had under Viscount Dumar. A large desk dominated the space, and behind it sat Viscount Bran.

Bran looked up as Varric entered, his expression unreadable. The years hadn’t been kind to him. His hair was more gray than brown now, his face lined with worry and something darker that Varric couldn’t quite place. His eyes, however, didn’t change. Sharp and calculating, a little disdained at Varric’s power in the city, that had just grown since their last discussion. 

"Ah, Varric Tethras," Bran greeted, his voice smooth but tinged with a hint of calculation. "It’s been too long since you’ve graced these halls. Welcome back to Kirkwall."

Varric offered a lopsided smile. "Viscount Bran. It’s good to be back, though I’d prefer it under better circumstances. I hear you’ve been busy since I left."

Bran waved a hand dismissively. "The duties of leadership, you know how it is. But let’s not waste time with pleasantries. I wanted to speak with you directly. After all, you’re a man who’s seen much, experienced much. And recently, from what I understand, you’ve parted ways with the Inquisition."

Varric’s smile tightened. "You could say that. No hard feelings, of course."

The Viscount leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he studied the dwarf. "That’s precisely what interests me, Varric. You were taken by the Inquisition against your will, forced into their service. I imagine that left a sour taste in your mouth. And now that you’re free… well, it seems to me that you might be looking for new alliances. Perhaps ones more aligned with your own interests. Perhaps one with the very person that helped you escape it."

Varric shrugged, playing it cool. "I’m not really the ‘alliance’ type, Bran. I like my independence. But I’m always open to hearing what someone has to say." That’s what the Inquisitor was hoping would happen. Someone thinking Varric owes them, convinced that he could look for an alliance. But jumping at the opportunity would have been suspicious, a character changing so quickly makes a story dull. So play it cool Varric. 

Bran smiled, a thin, calculating expression that didn’t reach his eyes. "That’s exactly why I asked you here. I’ve heard things, Varric. Whispers of unrest, of new opportunities in this old city. And I’ve been told that you, of all people, might be someone worth having on my side."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "On your side, huh? And what exactly does that mean?"

"It means," Bran said slowly, "that Kirkwall is on the brink of change. There are those who seek to bring about that change, to shape this city into something stronger, something more secure. I believe you could be a valuable asset in that endeavor."

Varric didn’t miss the implication behind Bran’s words. He leaned on his crossbow, his demeanor casual but his mind racing. "And what makes you think I’d be interested in that? I’m just a storyteller, Viscount. I write books, spin tales. I’m not exactly the revolutionary type."

Bran’s smile widened slightly. "You’re more than that, Varric. You’ve been in the heart of the storm, seen things others can’t even imagine. And I know that deep down, you care about this city. You wouldn’t have returned otherwise. Perhaps you’re looking for a way to… influence what comes next."

Varric’s eyes flicked to Bran’s, trying to gauge the man’s intentions. There was a gleam in the Viscount’s gaze that made him uneasy. "And who exactly are these people looking to change Kirkwall? I can’t imagine you’d be working alone."

Bran’s expression didn’t waver. "Let’s just say I have allies. Powerful ones. Allies who see the potential in Kirkwall, who want to see it rise from the ashes stronger than ever. But such things require careful planning, discretion, and the right kind of help."

The room seemed to grow colder, the shadows lengthening as Bran’s words hung in the air. Varric knew he was being sized up, evaluated for some purpose that Bran wasn’t fully revealing.

"I appreciate the offer," Varric said after a moment, his voice steady. "But I’ve learned to be cautious about who I align myself with. Last thing I need is to get caught up in something over my head."

Bran’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of impatience flashing across his features. "This isn’t something you want to be on the outside of, Varric. Things are changing, and those who aren’t part of it… well, they may find themselves on the wrong side of history."

Varric nodded slowly, as if considering the words. "I’ll keep that in mind, Bran. But for now, I think I’ll stick to what I know best—telling stories and keeping an eye on this city. After all, someone’s got to document the madness."

Bran’s smile returned, though it was now tinged with a hint of frustration. "Of course, Varric. But remember, the offer stands. Should you change your mind…"

Varric gave a polite nod, then turned to leave the chamber, the weight of Bran’s gaze following him as he walked away. As he exited the Keep, Varric couldn’t shake the feeling that Kirkwall was teetering on the edge of something dark and dangerous. And for now, he intended to stay as far away from it as possible—at least until he had a better idea of what he was dealing with.

Outside, the familiar streets of Kirkwall greeted him, but they felt different, more oppressive than before. Varric glanced back at the Keep, his mind already spinning with the implications of his meeting with the Viscount. Bran wouldn’t be so stupid as to align himself with Corypheus, right? He had to play hard to get, to avoid suspicion, but the thought of the highest authority in Kirkwall being the chief agent of Corypheus…he felt a shiver running down his spine.

-

That evening, when he got rid of most of the people that wanted “Just to say hello” and had finally shook the meeting with Bran from his shoulders, Varric found himself standing before Hawke's mansion, his heart heavy with nostalgia. He took a deep breath and entered, greeted by the sight of Merrill and Isabela.

Merrill looked up with a sad smile. "Varric, thought you weren’t going to come anymore!"

Isabela, on the other hand, was a tragic contrast. The pirate’s usual confidence was replaced by a drunken stupor. She lounged on one of the grand chairs, her eyes heavy with grief, and a bottle of wine clutched in her hand. Her normally vibrant demeanor was subdued. She took a swig from the bottle and muttered, “Is Varric dead too?”

Varric's smile softened as he approached Isabela, who was still slumped in the chair, her usually sharp eyes dulled by alcohol and sorrow. He crouched down in front of her, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

"Hey, Rivaini, I'm here, not going anywhere," he said softly, trying to catch her gaze.

Isabela blinked slowly, her vision struggling to focus on him. "You better not," she mumbled, her voice slurred. 

Merrill, standing nearby, wrung her hands nervously. "She’s been like this since... I’ve tried to help, but..."

Varric gave Merrill a reassuring nod. "You’ve done more than enough, Daisy. It’s been hard on all of us."

Isabela let out a hollow laugh, the sound of it devoid of her usual mischief. "Hawke was supposed to be invincible, wasn’t she? Our fearless leader. But now..." She trailed off, her voice breaking.

Varric’s heart twisted at the sight of her so broken. Isabela was a force of nature, someone who always had a quick retort, and a smirk to go along with it. Seeing her like this was almost too much to bear.

He stood up and took the bottle from her hand. "I think you’ve had enough, Rivaini."

Isabela hugged the bottle tighter, and after taking a hearty swing, she slumped back in the chair

“It’s the second husband that I bury and I’m not even gray yet,” Isabela muttered with slurred speech, staring blankly at the floor. “Except I didn’t get to bury this one.” And with a sudden whip of anger Isabela threw the bottle in the fire, shattering it. The flames became stronger for a minute "I'll drink as much as I want" she slurred accusingly towards the fire

Varric felt a pang of sorrow. He moved beside Isabela, placing a comforting hand on her arm. "Hawke wouldn't want us to fall apart. Especially you. Shouldn’t you be around swinging your daggers around?"

Isabela let out a bitter laugh. "I know. But he’s not here to scold me anymore, isn’t he. So I’ll drown myself in another kind of sea." she takes another healthy gulp from a bottle she must have summoned from thin air.

Merrill joined them, "I miss him too. He was such a good friend."

Varric nodded. "He was the best. But we still have a job to do. There's a lot going on in Kirkwall that we need to figure out, and Hawke would want us to keep fighting."

Merrill's expression turned determined. "You're right. We can't let his sacrifice be in vain."

Isabela took another swig and nodded. "I'm out. Let me drink" that said as she slumped on an armchair and fell asleep.

They spent the rest of the evening discussing the events of Kirkwall, with Varric telling Merrill what had happened with the Viscount and how he feared that he could be working with Coryphues. When Isabela woke up they switched to lighter topics, avoiding talking about Hawke. As the night wore on, Varric decided to escort Merrill home in the Alienage, worried about her safety. Isabela insisted on coming, but she could actually barely stand for herself.

As they made their way through the dimly lit streets, Merrill talked to Varric about the changes in the city since his departure. She confirmed that there was a new circle, but said that after Meredith, it was closely watched. At least until the Divine’s death. Now it’s chaos again, and there are factions competing for power, again. The city was changing, and they needed to be ready. There was also a new drug on the street, something powerful. But the good news just never ended. The uptick in kidnappings led people to hide and the Alienage was avoided by humans at all costs. The humans in High Town were also ignoring the issue as much as they could, releasing public statements of solidarity followed by a heap of nothing. Humans.

When they finally reached Merril’s home, they lingered for a moment, reluctant to part ways. Varric gave her a reassuring hug. "We'll meet again soon. Stay safe, Daisy."

Merrill nodded, her smile tightening. "You too, Varric. And thank you. Good night" She added to both of her friends, entering her small home.

Varric watched as she disappeared into her home, then turned to Isabela. "Let's get you back too, Rivaini."

Isabela smirked, a hint of her old self returning. "I can take care of myself, Varric."

"I know you can," Varric replied, "but humor me this once."

As they walked back through the quiet streets of the alienage, Varric's thoughts drifted to Hawke and Isabela. He had to take care of her. He wouldn’t want her to waste away like that.

“Rivaini, you have to be careful with that bottle, you -”

Isabela waved him off. “Careful? He’s gone. And all I’m left with is an empty bed. Let me drink Varric. I'll drink, I'll fuck, and I'll heal. Or die too, don't care.”

The streets were quiet, the narrow alleys and small homes with closed shutters exuding a sense of sadness. An irate resident glared at Isabela as they passed, fear turning into rage towards someone that didn't earn it.

He called out with a discontented voice, “We're watching you pirates!” he was probably afraid she was going around with that bottle to whack it on the head of an elf to drag them away.

“I am the Champion of Kirkwall’s wife,” Isabela retorted, her voice heavy with the weight of her inebriation. “I can go wherever I want, got it?”

Varric apologetically says “She’s had a rough day, we’re leaving. And by the way” he points at himself “Author”

-

They kept walking in silence, Varric making sure that Isabela wasn't going to fall in a ditch or pick fights she couldn't win. He tried to keep the mood light by talking about games of Wicked Grace in the Inquisition. Isabela tried to respond something from time to time, but mainly she was lost in herself.

“Fenris?” Asked Isabela at some point, alarmed.

“He’s fine Rivaini. He’s just going to take a while. He’s far” Varric pats her on the back reassuringly. “He’s doing a thing for me, but he’s safe.” Isabela goes back into her stupor and grief, forgetting even to say goodbye before they separate. Varric sighs. He has to help her somehow.

INQUISITOR

The camp was bustling with activity as dawn broke over the horizon. The Inquisitor, enjoying her disguise as a common soldier, moved among her troops, taking in the atmosphere, learning what it meant to be part of her forces.

As she walked, helping to pack up the camp, she caught the eye of Captain Brant, a burly man with a permanent scowl etched on his face. His disdainful glare followed her every move. The Inquisitor felt a familiar unease, the look of prejudice all too common in her experiences.

"Hey, knife-ear!" Captain Brant's voice cut through the morning air, dripping with contempt. "Get over here."

She shouldn’t be surprised, be she was. The Inquisitor obeyed, moving towards the captain. "Yes, Captain?" she asked, keeping her tone neutral.

"Fetch my sword from the armory, and be quick about it," Brant ordered, not bothering to hide his disdain. "Your kind are always lounging around when there's work to be done. Get to it. Quick"

That didn’t just happen, right? Was that the person the rumor was about? Her mind gave way to disdain and anger, her mouth opened before her mind could protest.

"Isn't the Inquisitor also a knife-ear?" she asked, her voice steady but challenging.

Brant sneered and spat on the floor. "She's the New Bride of the Maker, not the same as the likes of you. She's been blessed, chosen. You? You're just another dirty rabbit. Are you knew here? Did no one teach you your place yet? And keep your head down when your superior talks to you!" he turned to his sneering companions “Can you believe the gall?”

The Inquisitor's eyes flashed with anger, but she maintained her composure. 

Brant turns back "Did I stutter? Now move, knife-ear, and fetch my damn sword, before I remind you of your place!" Brant barked.

Instead of complying, the Inquisitor turned on her heel and walked briskly towards the command tent. A while later, Commander Cullen returned with Brant’s sword, Inquisitor in tow.

Cullen, his brow furrowed in anger, approached Captain Brant with a determined stride. "Here’s your sword captain, I heard you needed it” He threw the sword on the ground before him. The circle of people around them was suddenly silent as a funeral. People looked between Brant, Cullen and Nuria. As she looked at the stunned face around them she paled, just realizing her mistake. She had attracted attention.

 “Captain Brant," Cullen began, his voice low and dangerous, "I've been informed of your behavior. Explain yourself."

Brant's face twisted in confusion and indignation. "Commander, I was just instructing this soldier—"

"You were not instructing,'" Cullen interrupted sharply. "I had received reports on rumors regarding one of our captains, but did not want to believe it. Elves are members of our Inquisition, just like any other. Your behavior is unacceptable." Cullen was angry. Too honest to pretend to be unaffected or just annoyed. Nuria slumped her shoulders and bowed her head, looking at the people around her, taking in the scene. Oh no. The realization hit her, but it was too late to stop.

"But, Commander," Brant protested

Cullen's expression darkened. "Our own Inquisitor is an elf, I would remind you. You will apologize to this soldier and consider yourself on probation. Any further misconduct, and you will be stripped of your rank. Is that understood?"

Brant's face turned a deep shade of red, a mixture of anger and humiliation. "Yes, Commander," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Apologize," Cullen repeated, his voice brooking no argument.

Brant turned to the Inquisitor, his eyes filled with loathing. "I...apologize," he forced out, his voice barely above a whisper.

The Inquisitor nodded shortly, head still bowed. "Thank you, Commander, Captain" she said, her voice calm but firm.

Cullen nodded back, his expression softening slightly as he looked at her. "If there's any further issue, report it directly to me, soldier."

As the Inquisitor walked away, she could feel Brant's eyes boring into her back. She knew that he would not forget this humiliation and would likely seek revenge. But for now, she had made her point clear to him and to the group that was watching. But…the news would surely spread. She realizes right then just how much that would attract attention, with the amount of eyes that bore in the back of her head. Even though she was in the right, that act could have cost her her cover.

As she left the scene she reflected on the magnitude of her mistake, on the risk she exposed herself to out of pride, anger, and lack of foresight.

Later that evening, as the camp settled for the night, she couldn't shake the feeling of unease. She didn’t know how Brant’s revenge would be happening that night, blunt and brutal.

SOLAS

Solas felt the surge of power coursing through his veins even the following day. It was a tantalizing sensation, one that called to him with a siren's allure. His senses sharpened, and he felt a deep connection to his magic that called for more. New blood in his vein, pulsing harder, faster. The temptation to seek out power was strong, but he knew the risks. Any sudden move could draw unwanted attention and reveal his identity, jeopardizing his carefully laid plans. With all his plans ongoing it was easier for him to chase away the thought of the Inquisitor. Maybe he could let her go on this mission. It would have been better for both of them, and his atonement. But randomly the thought of her came to the front of his mind insistently. Whenever he saw a ruin she would have asked questions about, when the soldiers talked about their lives before the inquisition, or just when he woke up feeling the emptiness of his arms, without her in them.

He dismissed the thought and turned his attention to the mission. Leliana had provided a lead about a skirmish between the Venatori and a group of pirates. The Venatori had been left stranded on the outskirts of Kirkwall.

The group moved cautiously through the rugged terrain. The air was thick with tension and the promise of danger. Solas’s newfound strength heightened his awareness of every rustle and movement in the landscape.

“We should be close,” Garret whispered, his eyes scanning the horizon.

“Keep your guard up,” Solas replied, his voice calm but authoritative.

They came upon the remnants of the Venatori, their camp hastily abandoned. A few Venatori mages and soldiers lay dead, victims of the pirates’ wrath. None was left alive. Solas ordered the group to make camp.

-

As night fell he explained his plan

“I will investigate in the Fade. Since this is a recent battleground and the Veil is thin, demons could appear. I will know if this happens and I will wake to aid you” The soldiers nodded, taking positions around the camp to keep watch. It always felt wrong calling spirits demons, but he couldn’t justify  a lengthy explanation now.

Once in the Fade, finding memories was easy. The memory of battle and violent death were too intense to dissipate easily.

Spirits of Justice and Desperation were side by side, fulfilling their respective roles. He left them to do what they needed, and focused on the memories themselves. There was the usual battle and strife he had seen for thousands of years, but what interested him was something different. Before the battle, there was a fight between the head of that group of Venatori and the pirates. It was a stale discussion about gold, but he focused on it, until his patience bore fruit: the mention of a slave route and a cave. The words echoed in the fractured landscape of the mage’s thoughts: “A cave with traces of elvhen magic.”

Solas felt a glimmer of hope. If he could find this cave, he might uncover something valuable. He felt lucky, and if he played his cards right, he could kill two birds with one stone. Help the Inquisition and himself.

Just as he began to pull away from the Fade, the energy of the place shifted. It was her. Mythal’s presence was palpable before she even appeared, a heavy weight pressing on his consciousness. When she finally took form, it was with the grace and power of a dragon, her eyes piercing through him.

“Still not coming to see me, old friend. And you’ve built barriers,” she accused, her voice echoing in the ethereal realm.

Solas met her gaze with a calculated calm, tinged with a roguish attitude. Old habits die hard. “I’m afraid that I felt my privacy violated. As you say, I’ve slept with an endless stream of women, including your oldest daughter. I’d hate for my Creator to witness those memories.”

Mythal laughed, a sound both beautiful and terrifying. “You’re so amusing, Pride. I like to think you take after me. That was a fine match, a shame it didn’t work. If it did it would have been you whispering in her ear, instead of Ghila’nain. Maybe then she wouldn’t have killed me with the others. Maybe she would have saved her mother” She talks about it lightly, but the glint in her eyes is unmistakable. 

Fen’harel remains neutral but his mind is filled with the implication of what she said.

Not for long however, now it's not the time.

“But I haven’t forgotten that you’re not treating me with due respect,” she said, her tone turning sharp.

“You’re right, but I had intentions of coming with a boon that is worth your time.”

The enormous dragon that was Mythal tilted her head, intrigued. “And what would that be?”

“I have reason to suspect there is an artifact belonging to Elgar’nan containing a part of his essence that I could destroy for your pleasure.”

“Yes” Mythal’s fragment said, her eyes alight with glee, a hint of her own fragmented mind coming forward. That remnant wasn’t really his friend, just another shadow, focused on the betrayal of the Evanuris and her desire to get revenge. “Every last piece of him should be destroyed until nothing remains. Only then my revenge will be complete. Where is it?”

“I’m just in the beginning stage of research. I don’t know yet. But rest assured that I will see it destroyed.”

Mythal’s joy was quickly replaced by suspicion. “You are not aiming to keep the power for yourself, are you?”

“No, I know how much it means to you to see it destroyed, and it would not be wise to absorb even a bit of Elgar’nan’s essence.”

“Indeed, it would be unwise,” she said, glaring at him nonetheless.

“But you, Pride, you wouldn’t work so hard just for a gift for me. What is your price?”

“Your appeasement is prize enough.”

She considered his words, then let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Is it the child? Do you wish for me to be appeased and leave your lover alone?”

“She’s nothing to me. However, she possesses my Anchor. I do not have the strength to get it back from her, but it’s essential to Corypheus’ defeat and the retrieval of my Foci.”

“Oh yes, that mage. Morrigan told me all about it,” she said dismissively. “It’s so like you to take as a lover the instrument to your plans. Very clever.” her tone is a mockery “She will want to follow you, no questions asked.”

He didn’t react. If the remnant thought that she was either too blind to the Inquisitor’s nature or didn’t care to observe her. He would hope for the latter.

“She is not my lover. I abandoned that fancy; it was getting too complicated.”

“I still see spirits of Love looking for you in the Fade. Don’t make a mockery of me”

He presses a mischievous smile on his mouth “How strong of a love can it be if it’s not stopping my plans to destroy her and her world? You’ve seen it happen before, lovers are… fun to have but never more important than my mission”

When Mythal didn’t reply, Solas pressed on. An opening. “There is so little love in this world that even a small fancy must attract them.”

She pauses again, evaluating his statements, tilting her dragon head. Then, she replied with humor “It could be indeed. How would I know? All of the ones I’ve taken to maintain this form, I’ve killed.” She laughs again, menacing, ancient and terrible, maddened by her condition. It hurt him to know that the Evanuris not only killed her, but also damned her to this fragile state that made her so unlike herself.

“Very well, Pride. I accept your proposal. But I warn you, if any of that power ends up being taken, I will make sure that the child pays.”

“That you would make me pay a price so small is surprising,” Solas said, his voice steady, the roguish expression still attached to his face. It’s what has worked best to keep her calm so far. A reminder of simpler times maybe, or just a brief reprieve from boredom.

Mythal glared at him one last time before vanishing, her presence lingering like a shadow. Solas stood alone in the Fade, the echoes of Mythal's laughter fading into the surreal landscape. The gravity of his mission loomed over him, but it was not only the mission that weighed heavily on his mind. The thought of the Inquisitor intruded again, unbidden. She haunted him, his heart ached with a longing he couldn't afford to indulge. Especially knowing Mythal’s intentions.

Why does she consume my thoughts so still? He wondered, frustration bubbling within him. She was a weakness he could ill afford. And yet, despite his best efforts, he couldn't conquer the feelings that surged within him.

Solas shook his head, trying to dispel her image. The Fade was no place for such thoughts. He needed to be clear-headed, focused. He left the Fade, returning to his body and the camp where the others awaited him.

The soldiers looked up as he emerged from his tent, their expressions a mix of curiosity, relief and respect. Loran and Fedin were still buzzing with the energy of youth. Garret and Dod, more seasoned, watched him with wary eyes.

"Did you learn anything?" Garret asked, breaking the silence.

Solas nodded, masking his inner turmoil with a calm facade. "The Venatori and the pirates were working together, a slave trade connected to a cave nearby”

Fedin frowned. "Slaves? For what purpose?"

"The details are unclear," Solas replied. "But considering what we know is happening in Kirkwall, it wouldn’t surprise me if while performing their duties for Coypheus, an entrepreneurial Venatori decided to earn some coin. However they he did mention something about a cave that contains traces of elvhen magic. We should investigate."

As they prepared to move out, Solas found himself drawn to the Inquisitor's memory once more while thinking about his impossible situation. He could almost hear her voice say, in a breathless whisper ‘You’re not weak’. It was maddening, this pull she had on him.

"Something on your mind, Solas?" Dod asked, noticing his distraction.

Solas shook his head. "Just thinking about our next move. We must be cautious."

Dod nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer, and they set off toward the cave.

The journey was uneventful at first, the soldiers maintaining a watchful silence. But as they neared the cave, Solas felt a familiar presence, where the Veil was thin. It was Mythal, watching, waiting. If Mythal did move on the Inquisitor, he wouldn’t be able to stop her. He put a target on Nuria's back, and now there were two ancient elvhen mages threatening her life.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

As the camp settled into a tentative calm after the confrontation with Captain Brant, the Inquisitor retreated to the tent she shared with More and Sheranna. She found Zore and Sheranna in their tent, their faces illuminated by the warm glow. She found the two busy with their own tasks; leatherwork for Zore and a report for Sheranna. They nodded at her and continued their work, relaxing after a long day of marching

Nuria approached them, dropping on her cot with a bit of the drama that Dorian must have passed onto her. He would be proud. That captured their attention.

“What happened?” Zore asked, putting her leatherwork on her lap.

“Captain Brant happened,” Nuria replied, sighing.

“Everyone knows he’s an ass to elves.” reassured Zore, shrugging. 

Nuria's eyes widened “What? You knew? Why didn't you come forward?” she of all people could have said the truth.

Zore shrugged again. “People like him will always make life difficult for us”

Nuria grunted and took her head in her hands “They will until we'll let them do that with no consequence. You should have told me Zore”

Zore sighed, setting aside the leatherwork and leaning back against the tent's canvas wall. "It’s not that simple, Nuria. You’re the Inquisitor."

Nuria frowned, her frustration bubbling to the surface. "But that’s exactly why I need to know. What use is having the power to change things if I’m kept in the dark?"

Nuria shook her head. She was frustrated. She tried and tried to never be trusted, never be given a chance to prove herself in things that truly matter. First Solas, then Zore. How many people were hiding things from her thinking that she couldn’t handle them? What good is being the Inquisitor?

Sheranna put down her quill and joined them. "You have the power, yes, but you also have to be careful. Brant isn’t just an ass, and he’s not the only one. If you move against people like him too openly, you will disrupt the ranks from within. You need to be smart about this."

“I know,” replied Nuria, clipped. She stopped, back straight, her Inquisitorial persona on “But if I’m not entrusted with knowledge of the issue how am I supposed to do that?”

She was extremely cold now, going between the two. The only warm thing about her was her eyes: blazing pools of green, shining almost as much as her mark, that was currently simmering. She closed her fist. She would not give in to the discomfort. They both knew. Neither talked.

"You may not be aware of this, but I'm the one making plans for every move the Inquisition makes, including the entire covert operation you've been entrusted to join. I may be a symbol, but don't mistake me for anything but the mind behind it all. Open racism among the ranks of my organization is unacceptable. I don't think I can defeat millennia of racism with smiles and a chat, but if I accept something like that I just encourage more people to act the same"

Zore’s face flushed with realization. She turned to Sheranna, that looked pale. As low rank members, they had never seen Nuria in the thick of it, just heard the aftermath of each of her decisions, experiencing the weight of her actions. They only saw her being friendly, helpful and sweet around Skyhold. They both, in their own way, thought of her as an instrument to her human council.

"I—" Sheranna began, her voice faltering. "I thought that Leliana was the mind behind it all. I didn’t know you were at the head of the table. I thought, with all those humans…"

"I understand that it's easy to assume that I'm just a figurehead," Nuria said, her voice icy but controlled. "But if we’re to be allies and work together, I need to be kept in the loop. I need to know what’s happening, so I can act effectively. If we don’t do that, Corypheus will take advantage of that and tear us apart. If you don't trust my ability to lead our operation will fail” she didn't say that as an accusation, but as a matter of fact statement. She had softened slightly now, adding

“Also, I’m an elf just like you. I was just a Dalish First like all the others before this. I had to navigate the politics of human interaction when they spit in my face while asking for our leatherwork. I know. But if we underestimate each other like they do it’s a lost fight"

Herald. It was a curse that followed her so closely that even two elves working in her forces had thought of her as a non-elf, something apart from everyone else? A face for human politics, nothing more. 

Was it her mistake in the way she acted around in Skyhold?

Sheranna was about to say something when Nuria just waved a hand dismissively. She didn't want apologies.

“What matters now is that Brant is going to seek revenge because he feels slighted and humiliated. I'll need to be careful and make up for my mistake”

Sheranna and Zore nodded in agreement. Nuria mulled about the persona she projected, and the mistakes she had made. She couldn’t afford to make such mistakes in Kirkwall.

As the evening wore on, the three friends received supporting comments from other elves affected by Brant, and odd looks from some humans. Most notably, Cole appeared when she was relatively alone next to her, sitting on her same log. She smiled but didn’t greet him, aware that she couldn’t afford any more attention in her direction. The crazy elf that talks alone tends to attract attention. He had been feeling guilty since the assassination attempt, and had been following her closely since then. She didn’t mind, grateful for the company and for his presence. 

He just told her “He’s hurting, thoughts slicing in your direction” she nodded. She was sure he would come to get his due. But she had no idea how violent his revenge would be, and how swift.

-

“It was her, the little knife-ear whore. My career. She. Will. Beg.” The words echoed in her mind as she turned in for the night. Cole had been following her all night, sensing even the most trivial dangers in her direction. The last instance involved too much spice in the evening meal, a small prank aimed at her because of the situation.

“Burning. Insides screaming” were an accurate prelude to her suffering. But these words made the hair on her neck raise in alarm. Most of the camp was still attending dinner, enjoying the camaraderie. She had retired early to reflect and finally read the book Cullen gave her. She had been so busy she didn’t have time to open it. Sheranna and Zore were looking for water. She was in her night robe already.

She didn’t even have the time to grab a weapon when Captain Brant barged through the door without so much as a courtesy cough.

"Captain, can I be of service?” She asked plainly

"Yes" he replied, looking around the tent before closing the flap. When he turned back to her, a knife gleamed in his hand.

"I didn’t appreciate your little stunt today," he sneered, taking a step closer. "And I thought you could use some…discipline." The lewd tone in his voice made her shudder.

"Cole, stop" she said quietly, sensing the spirit's readiness to murder the fool.

"Already begging, are we? But my name is not Cole, and I’m not stopping until you've learned your lesson." He lunged at her, but with a flick of her wrist, she conjured a fire that engulfed his hands. He screamed, falling to his knees, his hands ablaze, looking at her with wide eyes. He didn’t realize that she was actually a mage until that moment. Good. Cole appeared behind him, a knife pressed to his throat.

"This is Cole, and if you make a false move, he will kill you. He doesn’t like people who want to hurt me," she said, her voice emotionless and cold. The shouting didn’t attract any attention; music played in the distance, masking the noise.

"You’ve chosen a perfect time for your project, it seems. Is this not your first time attacking a female subordinate?" The man whimpered but remained silent.

“He likes it when they beg” Cole said

"I’ll take that as a yes," she continued, her eyes glinting with a fury that she rarely showed, even in battle.

"You want to hurt him," Cole observed, his voice a whisper.

"I do, but I won’t. And you won’t either, Cole. If we go through the proper channels he’s gonna pay for the hurt he has inflicted to the ones that begged. Could you please tell Cullen, ‘The Inquisitor wants you in her tent’?" The captain’s eyes widened in shock as Cole disappeared.

"You, you can’t be…"

"Oh, but I am. And I assure you that a thorough investigation will take place, and you’ll get exactly what you deserve." She grabbed the Arcane Edge and sat on her cot, crossing her legs with the elegance of a snake wrapping its coils around prey. "You know I am a Dreamer, right? If I were you, I would confess, or I’ll find out everything in the Fade. And once I’m there, I could discipline you and enjoy hearing you beg." He tried to rise, but she cast a barrier, pinning him down.

When Cullen arrived, the Inquisitor was still trying to convince Cole not to kill Brant or make her forget. Cullen swiftly took control of the situation. The captain was gagged and escorted out by two soldiers, destined for a cell in Skyhold. Cullen then returned to the tent, finding the Inquisitor alone, staring blankly into the distance, eyes blinded by rage. He knelt in front of her, gently taking her hand. She snapped out of her trance, focusing on him.

"Are you all right?" he asked softly. "I’ve never seen you with that expression." It took her a moment to compose herself, her face slowly returning to normal.

"I’m sorry," she said, her voice wavering slightly. "I’m all right. I just need to sleep."

She lied. That night, when she entered the Dreaming, she was afraid her past would greet her with a vengeance. She hoped her training with Solas would save her from a terrible nightmare. She planned on wandering the Dreaming, seeking knowledge to soothe her troubled heart. She didn’t expect to encounter Mythal. 

-

Her dreams were shadows and darkness when she reached the Fade. She looked around, confused. She expected her memories, but not this. The shadows whispered in ancient Elvhen, so softly that she could only catch glimpses. Someone was meddling with her dream. She readied herself to fight whatever was coming. But what emerged from the darkness was not a demon, but Mythal.

Her first, instinctual reaction was to bow to the Goddess, but uneasiness washed over her.

“ Welcome All-Mother, bringer of Justice, harbinger of Vengeance. ” She recited an old formula she had found, hoping it was the right way to address her. When she rose, Mythal seemed pleased.

"No one has spoken those words in a long time. It makes me feel nostalgic, but perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that you, of all people, would be so courteous."

Nuria was confused but said nothing. Maybe Mythal was referring to the Anchor? She didn’t ask.

"To what do I owe the honor of your presence?" she asked, unsure of what to make of the Goddess’s visit but in awe nonetheless.

"Do I need a reason to come and visit one of the People? I’m not Fen’Harel, child. There isn’t always a hidden meaning behind my actions." She smiled dangerously. If she was not as dangerous as Fen’harel she was glad he didn’t catch her scent

"Can I be of service then?"

"You refused to be under my service when you let Morrigan take the Well’s knowledge. You, who still bore my Vallaslin. Why is that so? Why didn’t you take the power for yourself?”

She pondered the question and replied with honesty.

"I’m a First, and we take our job of trying to preserve what was very seriously. But when I came to your temple, your guards didn’t recognize me as one of the People. The more we delved into it, the more I felt there was so much I didn’t know. I was told the Well would bind me to your will and compel me to act in a certain way. What if that way was like the guards? They don’t want to have anything to do with this world. What if by drinking, I gave up my quest against Corypheus? Who would defeat him then? I couldn’t take the risk. If Corypheus kills us all, nothing else matters”

Mythal didn’t respond but kept looking at her, taking in her essence with a gaze. Or maybe it was just the weight of the Goddess’s gaze that felt draining to a simple mortal like her.

"I’ve been watching you," Mythal said. "And I thought you boring. All travel, chatting, sleeping, and pining. But today, you surprised me. You were not just inflicting justice but exacting vengance. Maybe that’s what interests him." She looked afar, like she was looking at this him, somewhere faraway in the Fade.

She didn’t know what to respond or even if she was supposed to respond. Him who? Cole? Why would Cole be attracted to help a vengeful person? After a while, the Goddess came back from her musings.

"You also have a pet spirit. Compassion taking form and killing. I also used to have a spirit like that when I was young. It was a Pride spirit. Well, it was Wisdom first. You know how these things go." She laughed again and her skin crawled. She vividly remembered Solas’ friend and the suffering a similar deal caused him. She opened her mouth before her better judgment could stop her

"Cole is not my pet," she dared to say, stopping mid-breath to catch her tongue. "He chose to help me, it’s true, but it’s of his own volition as my friend, just as I chose to help him. We’re equals."

Mythal took another long moment looking at her, pinning her in place. Nuria stood very still, waiting for her reaction, steeling herself. She said something wrong.

"Maybe you’re not so boring after all," Mythal concluded, and with that, the Goddess left.

Nuria woke up, not entirely sure what had happened. Was that a test? The shadows and whispers of the Fade lingered in her mind, along with Mythal’s parting words. She felt a shiver run through her as she considered what this encounter might mean for her future and her mission.

CULLEN

They needed people as a show of force when they reached Kirkwall, and just in case they needed it, but traveling with a delegation made everything incredibly slow. It was particularly frustrating for him because it meant that they could be too late just to keep up a facade, and it meant he had to stay away from her, just as she was slowly starting to open up, just as they had a chance to stay away from Solas' influence. After the events with the captain especially, he couldn’t show any interest in her. Most soldiers had just seen the Inquisitor in passing, but too much attention could make her disguise useless, hence endangering the mission.

When they reached a small city and dropped off the prisoner, with orders to send a communication to the Inquisition to take him in to await interrogation and judgment, he had the perfect excuse to call her in. She was supposed to give her recounting of the events to write down in a report, but when they were alone in a small office, he immediately went to hug her.

“How are you?” he asked, examining her face. She was flushed, probably from their closeness, but otherwise, she didn’t show any signs of distress. “You look better.” He was relieved and hugged her again. It felt so good to have her in his arms that he hesitantly stepped back. She was even more flushed. She picked at a strand of hair, putting it behind her ear and asking,

“Did you call me for a report?”

He shook his head no. “You already told me what happened, it was just an excuse to see you.” She blushed harder, and he chuckled. “How is soldier life treating you?”

“Good, actually,” she replied candidly and started talking about the soldiers she had befriended, her duties, and asked more about some ‘human idioms’ she had heard them saying that were mostly actually crude sexual innuendo.

“I see,” she said. “Is that what soldiers usually talk about?”

“Actually…yes. It helps lighten the mood when going towards a dangerous mission.” She chuckles, shaking her head. Her blush is calming down.

“I actually have a report about the person that stole Mina and Henry’s horse” he hated to ruin the moment, but she needed to know. She straightened up immediately, a flicker of hate dancing in her eyes

“He was found but he…hung himself” Cullen said neutrally. The Inquisitor expression went from hate, to surprise, to sorrow, to confusion. He rarely saw her going through so much in her face in so little time. Curious. He waited for her to make sense of her own reactions, and when she did she looked at him again and said

“Thank you for the report Cullen” calmly, as her eyes still flickered in confusion. Did she regret feeling empathy? He let her be for some more time, but then couldn’t help himself

“Nuria, can I ask you a question?”

She nodded, reflecting on something. “Yes, of course.”

“What happened with that man. It seems that it triggered something within you. I won't ask questions, but I want you to grow to trust me and know that you can tell me anything, so I have been thinking of a way to show you what you mean to me.”

She blinked at that last sentence but said nothing. He took half a step back, giving her space, and then started reciting:

“Elgar’nan, Mythal, Falon’Din, Dirthamen, Ghilan’nain, June, Sylaise, Andruil, Fen’Harel.” She looks stunned, eyes wide and too surprised to actually be able to say something for a couple seconds. When she does, it’s with a whisper

“You…learned the names of all the Creators?” She moves half a step forward, incredibly moved by his show of care for her culture.

“I've been reading a book about them supposedly written by a Dalish. You'll have to clarify a few points for me.” he adds, not confident that the book is actually good. It’s difficult to find literature on the Dalish that isn’t just anti-Dalish propaganda designed to scare city elves from joining them.

Her expression transforms, softening. Her eyes have a spark. Is it just his hope to see something more or…? She reflects for a minute, looking up to him and down, before replying. “Maybe I should learn more about the Maker too.”

“That would mean so much to me,” he replies with breathless joy, placing his hand gently on her face and kissing her forehead. 

-

Maybe she could really learn to love someone so kind, someone who would go to such lengths to understand her world.

But before she could respond, they heard steps in the hallway. They separated a full second before the door burst open, and a messenger hurried in. “Commander, you are needed immediately. There’s been a sighting of Red Templars near the outskirts of the city.”

He sighed, the moment shattered, but the weight of his gesture lingered. “Duty calls,” he said, voice tinged with regret.

“Yes,” he replied professionally, starting for the new danger. But as they walked side by side into the fray, he couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope that their bond had deepened, even in the midst of chaos.

SOLAS

After a day spent traveling to the next location, Solas stepped into the Fade. In the swirling mists, he stood with an air of calculated detachment as he read reports from his spies when Mythal's powerful presence emerged. Her human form materialized with an ethereal grace, her eyes alight with a dangerous gleam. Her form was a chaotic swirl of ancient power and primal fury, her fragmented nature showing. The Dread Wolf maintained his cold facade, but the tension in the air was palpable.

"I come today with a boon," Mythal announced, her voice echoing with a dark delight. Her dangerous smile widened as she surveyed him.

Solas instinctively straightened his back, a subtle sign of caution. "Why would you offer me a boon?"

Mythal's smile took on an edge, her eyes narrowing slightly. "I am, even though you still don’t show me respect."

Solas met her gaze with a mask of suspicion, though his heart beat a little faster. "Why should I believe you have any true interest in helping me?"

Mythal’s expression shifted, becoming thoughtful. "Because of your child lover, of course!"

Solas maintained his mask of cold indifference. "I have no lover.”

Mythal’s eyes glittered with a dangerous light, a hint of cruel amusement in her gaze. "I’m tired of your denial of facts, Sal’tuem. But…I have been watching her. Wondering who could make my Pride fall so deeply. I must admit, at first, I found her insignificant . But she has a spark, a fire that piqued my interest."

Solas kept his voice steady, though a flicker of concern was barely contained. "Why are you interested in her?"

"I have observed her closely," Mythal replied, gleeful. "Recently, she was attacked by a man—an attempt at assault. Her reaction was…impressive. She unleashed a vengeance that I found quite intriguing."

His heart skipped a bit. Was that a test, was she lying to see his reaction?

The smile on Mythal's face grew wider, more predatory. "Consider this boon a gift. In exchange for her delicious bloodlust, I offer you a source of power. A fragment of the old magic, something that can help you regain a measure of your former strength."

Solas’s gaze flickered towards the glowing, pulsing energy that Mythal conjured, a source of potent, ancient power. Another fragment, compared to what he had, but a great help to his currently pathetically weak form.

Solas remained still, his mind calculating. "You expect me to believe you would offer such a gift freely?"

"Freely? Hardly," Mythal replied, her voice a silken whisper. "You haven’t seen her Fade tonight, or you wouldn’t have said so. But think of it as a reward for her display of strength."

"And if I refuse?"

Mythal’s eyes flashed with a mixture of amusement and warning. "Refuse, and I might find ways to entertain myself with her. Accept, and you gain power and perhaps, just perhaps, a chance to protect the one you claim not to care about."

Solas's mind raced as he considered the implications. "I see. And if I accept this boon, how do I know you won't manipulate me further?"

Mythal’s eyes narrow further “Believe what you will of what I’ve become, but I still am your Sylvun’elan, and you My Pride” she scoffs, her human form adjusting in place, as if uncomfortable in that skin.

Solas raises an eyebrow, but otherwise was suspicious of her words, not sure what to believe of the words of what had become of Mythal. Solas’s gaze remained unwavering, though inside he was struggling to mask his true feelings. "I appreciate the offer. I will consider how best to use this boon."

Mythal’s form shimmered with a satisfied aura. "Good. Use it wisely. You have much to gain, but you also have much to lose. And a word to the wise: she’s wearing a mask as much as you do. Even better, I would argue. Try not to be scorched once she removes it and reveals who she is."

As Mythal's form began to dissolve back into the swirling mists, her presence lingered like a shadow, a faint whisper of ancient malice in the Fade. Solas stood alone, contemplating the decision before him. The power offered was tempting, it could tip the balance in his favor and allow him to grab more. But he knew well the price of accepting such a gift from Mythal. Her manipulations were subtle and deadly, and he would have to tread carefully. There was time to decide, but first, he had to check on Nuria. Mythal's words troubled him deeply, and with the spark of power he had regained, he could easily go unnoticed in her dreams.

Solas focused, allowing his essence to slip through the veils of the Fade and into Nuria's dreamscape. The path was familiar, her essence ready to be grasped. The scene before him left him speechless, then seething.

The Fade had transformed into a forest, but instead of the welcoming and light atmosphere of her quiet clan life, it was dark, the air filled with palpable fear, fractured into different moments of the same memory. A traumatic memory. He caught glimpses of a much younger Nuria, no older than fourteen, running, stumbling, hiding. Three distinct mocking voices called out to her.

"Nuria, come out, we just wanna talk."

"Come on, if we are to be wedded, there’s nothing wrong with getting a little practice in."

"Stop fussing."

The memory was enhanced by a spirit of Fear, feasting upon her. Waves of emotion rippled around her, and she tried to focus, but her breaths were becoming short and panicked, like that time. He had never seen her like this before that time, nor like that in the Fade. She had never told him of something like this happening. Was she really wearing a mask that even he couldn’t detect? 

She tried to dismiss the memory but failed, the voices getting louder.

"You can’t run, I’ll have you, whatever it takes!" The line he heard that night.

She tried again, but failed again. Her breaths were getting out of control.

"You’re just an orphan, you should be honored."

She tried again, with a grunt this time, and failed again. The images shifted, fractures of young Nuria hiding, whimpering in fear, looming figures getting closer. Then, a sing-song voice

"Found you."

Her eyes widened in terror, then in a flash, they hardened with a fury that blazed through her entire being. Her arms shot out violently, as if propelled by the very force of her rage, and from her throat erupted a scream that was pure, unbridled wrath.

"BUUUUUUUUUUUUUUURN!!!"

The sound tore through the air, guttural and primal, so raw it seemed to tear at the fabric of reality itself. It was a primal force and command that the forest around her obeyed, igniting in an instant. Flames surged from the ground, roaring to life in a blaze that seared the world with a blinding light. The spirit of Fear was consumed in the inferno, its form disintegrating into nothing before his eyes.

As the firestorm raged, she stood at its epicenter, her body trembling with the force of her anger. The trees, the grass, even the air seemed to shriek in agony as they were devoured by the flames. There were incoherent shouts of pain and fear. The sky turned black with smoke, blotting out the sun, and the scent of burning wood and charred flesh filled his nostrils. She was left alone in the heart of this hellscape, her face twisted into an expression of hatred so intense that it left her nearly unrecognizable, a wild, untamed force of vengeance.

But then, when the smoke and flames settled, she saw it—a small, frail figure huddled under a charred root. A girl, no more than sixteen, with soft brown curls matted with soot. Her body was curled up tightly, as if trying to protect itself from the world that had turned into a burning inferno. But there was no life left in her; she was gone, taken by the smoke.

The sight of the girl froze her in place. Her breath, which had been coming in ragged, heaving gasps, suddenly stopped. The fire around her began to die down, the flames flickering and sputtering out as her rage ebbed away, replaced by a cold, hollow emptiness. There were charred bodies littering the forest floor, visible as the smoke cleared.

Her hands trembled as she gazed at the lifeless girl, her heart pounding in her chest. The memory clung to her like a shroud, its weight pressing down on her until she could barely stand. With a slow, deliberate gesture, she dismissed the memory, forcing it away with a willpower that felt like it might shatter her.

The burning forest vanished, replaced by the quiet, dusky serenity of their secluded balcony at Skyhold. The air was cool, the horizon painted in shades of orange and purple as the sun dipped below the mountains. But she remained unmoving, her eyes still locked on the place where the girl had been.

For what felt like an eternity, she stood there. The memory was gone, but its echoes lingered, leaving her stranded in a world that had once again become unbearably silent.

Solas's heart ached at the sight of her pain, her trauma laid bare before him. The raw pain and vulnerability she had just endured, the fear and rage that had consumed her, left him feeling powerless. He had not been there to protect her then, and now, even as a dreamer, he was too weak to intervene without risking exposure. Stunned and paralyzed by her torment, he stood in the shadows, the urge to comfort her overwhelming, yet he knew his presence might do more harm than good. She had never revealed that to him. And that hurt even more.

When she moved, she looked at a painting on a wall that had never been there. It was an unfinished portrait he had made of her, in a mad hurry of longing, the day of the execution, before dawn. He had never shown it to her, and he just remembered that he had left it in his desk in Skyhold. He meant to bring it with him, then decided against it. She must have found it.

Nuria stood in front of the painting, her fingers lightly tracing the unfinished strokes, her touch delicate. She seemed lost in thought, the turmoil of her memories still etched deeply in her eyes. Solas wished he could reach out, offer her solace and strength.

As she finally moved away from the painting, Nuria gazed out over the balcony. The fading light of dusk cast a soft, melancholic glow on her features. She drew a deep breath, as if trying to steady herself, and Solas could see the strength in her resolve returning. It was a sight both heartening and heart-wrenching.

The burning need for vengeance surged through him, and he needed to act on it. The boon. He couldn’t be there for her then, but he could take action now, in the Waking. The men responsible for her pain would not escape retribution. The night was young, and he would ensure they died before dawn.

Returning to his part of the Fade, Solas seized the boon offered by Mythal. As the potent energy surged through him, he felt a fierce blaze of power, a rush that made him feel more at ease in his own skin. It was still not a return to his former strength, but it was enough for his purpose—a fragment of himself restored.

Mythal’s manipulation might have led to this, but at that moment, he didn’t care. The rage he felt for those who had harmed Nuria was all-consuming. He would ensure they suffered, that they would run, hide and whimper in fear like she did, before the end.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

Cullen quickly took command, shouting orders to the soldiers, who rallied around him and in different companies. Nuria couldn't really fight publicly, her magic would end her disguise. She slipped into the backguard, where the fighting was less intense. She kept looking around for Zore and Sheranna, who suddenly appeared next to her. “Stay close,” whispered Zore, her daggers glinting in the firelight. Sheranna took position on her other side, sword and shield at the ready.

The Inquisitor moved quietly, grabbing her weapon, a great invention from Dagna. She called it the Arcane Edge. It was a blending of advanced dwarven craftsmanship with the arcane arts they had prepared together. At first glance, the weapon appears to be a beautifully forged long knife, its sleek blade made from dragonbone and infused with lyrium-laced silverite. The blade, though slender, is deceptively strong, with a razor-sharp edge capable of cutting through armor and sinew alike.

The hilt of the knife is carved from blackened ironbark, its surface etched with runes that pulse faintly with a cool, blue light when magic is channeled through it. The grip is wrapped in deep crimson leather, providing a comfortable and secure hold, but currently covered with rags to give the blade the look of something a soldier could possess. At the base of the hilt, a small red jasper gemstone is embedded, seemingly innocuous but in reality, it is the heart of the weapon. What sets the Arcane Edge apart from any other weapon is its dual functionality. When sheathed, it acts as a standard long knife, easily concealed and deadly in close combat. However, when the user channels their magic into the red jasper core, the weapon undergoes a transformation.

The blade extends and elongates, its form shifting as the hidden mechanisms within the hilt and sheath activate. The knife becomes a full-length mage staff, the blade retracting into a slender pole with arcane symbols glowing along its length. The sheath, ingeniously designed, becomes the staff's focus, amplifying the wielder's magical power. The core of the weapon, now fully exposed, serves as a conduit for the user's magic, allowing spells to be cast with greater precision and potency.

In this form, the staff retains the sharpness of its knife form at the tip, making it versatile in both magical and physical combat. The weapon's balance is impeccable, allowing fluid transitions between casting spells and engaging in melee combat. When sheathed it is of course heavier than a normal knife, and she has another twin one that is just a blade, to complete her rogue disguise. She of course can barely use one knife in some situations, let alone two, but at least it didn’t attract attention. The core wasn’t particularly strong, but it allowed her to choose a fight style, or keep her cover intact.

In this particular battle, she could only use the knife openly. She could still cast without her staff, even if the impact would be minimal compared to what she could do. But she used cunning to be effective with very little. She made a gesture with her odd hand, willing the magic to shoot from the base of her back to her fingers, and then twine with the energies of the Fade to create barriers. She felt the surge of energy forming under her skin, the feel of adrenaline and magic taking effect. She did small things: barriers at the feet of the advancing Red Templars, causing them to stumble and fall, barriers between a sword and a templar's hand, while they were adjusting the grip, to make the weapon fall, leaving them vulnerable. A pool of ice, just behind the helmet, to make them confused and blind. She never fought like that, using her magic like delicate notes just at the right moment, precisely at the right place. Her magic was subtle, almost imperceptible amidst the chaos, but it helped, she wasn’t just a weight. She couldn’t unleash mayhem, but it somehow made the templars affected even more confused. Zore darted in and out of the shadows, dispatching enemies with lethal precision, while Sheranna held the line with powerful sweeps of her blade.

Amidst the chaos, a figure appeared, demure and invisible to most. Cole slipped through the battlefield like a whisper, his daggers flashing in the dark. He moved unseen, striking down Templars with precision, his presence barely noted by friend or foe.

“They’re scared,” Cole said softly, appearing beside the Inquisitor for a brief moment. “Afraid of the red, afraid of losing themselves. I can help them stop hurting.”

The Inquisitor nodded, casting a sticky barrier, like she did in training with Solas, and pulled a shield away from a Red Templar’s hand.

Just as she paused to catch her breath, the hair behind her neck raised. A Red Templar rogue emerged from the shadows, a dagger aimed at her heart. Time seemed to slow, the memory of the assassination attempt fresh in her mind. But this time it’s going to be different. She barely had a moment to react, her hand clutching instinctively to the hilt of her own dagger.

The rogue lunged. The Inquisitor sidestepped, the blade grazing her side but missing its mark. She twisted, and as she moved to drive her dagger into the rogue’s side, she imbued the blade with electricity, feeling the resistance as it pierced flesh and the electric energy coursed through the man. The rogue’s eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the ground.

Cole was at her side in an instant, shaking his head “Not again”

She nodded, pressing a hand to the shallow wound. “I’m fine. Let’s keep moving.”

Cole stayed closer to her after that, adamant about defending her, meanwhile Cullen’s voice boomed over the battlefield, rallying the soldiers and pushing back the Red Templars. The Inquisitor, Zore, Sheranna and Cole, mostly invisible to almost anyone but the Inquisitor, fought their way through the chaos, supporting their comrades and trying to hold the line.

It felt like days, but eventually, the tide of battle began to turn. The Red Templars were finally driven back. The Inquisition soldiers, bloodied but unbroken, let out a cheer as the last of the enemies fell dead on the ground.

Cullen started taking inventory of the wounded, his eyes darting around looking for her. When their eyes met, she nodded to signal him, then turned to the surrounding soldiers. She checked on Zore and Sheranna, who had scratches, like she did. Cole was unharmed. Some were injured more seriously, and Nuria had to stand by as healers did their best, and she couldn’t apply the teachings of the Verdant Luminary on anyone but Zore and Sheranna, when they were in their tent.

As the camp settled into a wary calm, the Inquisitor glanced at Cullen, busy with his duties, focused on checking on every soldier that had been injured during the battle. Steady, open, a true leader for his people, he was the proverbial dashing knight. She smiled, but her thoughts started drifting to Solas. She shaked her head, there’s no use still thinking about him, she should think about Cullen. Brave Cullen, leading his soldiers. Sweet Cullen, learning the Creators’ names for her. Gentle Cullen, taking her hand and asking her to trust him. Solas chose to leave her, and had been trying to stay as far away from her as possible. Maybe it was time to leave it to rest, give up those pesky feelings of hope and love. But every single thing led her to think about him, her heart aching for him. But she had better things to think about. There was so much at stake, and so many dangers yet to face. Better think about that then them both. For now, they had survived another battle, and that was enough for today.

-

Nuria drifted through the ever-changing dreamscape of the Fade, filled with vibrant colors and surreal forms. Each night brought a new side of this realm, a new wonder to explore, new knowledge to be acquired. And while traveling, the landscape changed. It was endlessly interesting to explore the memories and the spirits that would decide to inhabit a place and why. She moved with purpose, her eyes scanning the surroundings for anything related to the mysteries she was exploring she would be glad, but she doesn’t seem that lucky

Curiosity bounded alongside her, its form a delightful chimera of a fox and mouse with a squirrel’s tail, glowing a bright purple. It darted around, sniffing at the ground and peering into crevices, always eager to uncover something new. Nuria smiled at its enthusiasm, knowing that that spirit was born of her and so attached to her was peculiar but was also heartwarming.

“What will my last breath sound like? He found that out!” said it with enthusiasm, and went around catching similar thoughts of soldiers battling there.

As she walked, getting away from the memories of the recent battle that were dominated by spirits that followed their nature, she witnessed the journeys of the hopeless and the brave, the rich and the poor. They all had the same value in the Fade, the differences of the Waking fading in the background. Their stories weaved a rich tapestry of history and people that gave her a deeper understanding of the world, each night. She saw run-away slaves fleeing away from the city, their desperation palpable, and settlers heading in the opposite direction, seeking security. Each night brought new wonders, and she cherished the knowledge and experiences she gathered.

"Look, Nuria!" The spirit of curiosity chirped excitedly, its voice a melodious mix of squeaks and whispers. It pointed with its tiny paw to a shimmering image. "Over there! I think it's a memory from someone who has been here just weeks ago!"

Nuria followed the spirit's gesture and approached the memory of a man on a coach full of goods. As she gazed into it, the scene unfolded before her eyes. She saw a merchant in Kirkwall, meticulously preparing a special batch of cheese. He carefully mixed in spices, creating a unique blend that filled the air with a familiar aroma. It was the same one she always smelled when passing by his stall at the market, her eyes shy as they met his. She smiled, knowing that the merchant harbored a quiet crush for his client.

"He's quite the romantic, isn't he?" Nuria mused aloud.

She chuckled and then looked around herself. She felt Mystery’s presence as she waded through the memories. The Fade started feeling like a second home, but she couldn’t help but miss the man who showed her the ropes, who literally helped her out of her cage and showed her that the Fade could be beautiful.

THE PAST

After their first kiss in the Fade, Solas had confessed he needed time to think about starting a relationship. Despite the hesitation, the kiss lingered between them like an unspoken promise. As they stood in the rotonda, the chaos of the Inquisition settling in above, Solas gently prodded her about her experiences and perception of the Fade. She saw it in his eyes: he knew it already, but was waiting for her to choose to share that part of her identity.

She took a step closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. “I actually am a Dreamer.” She had braced herself for a reaction—shock, fear, or curiosity. But Solas merely nodded, his eyes unwavering and attentive. He was a Dreamer as well, she had figured it out during the dream they shared, but still, he acted like it was something mundane, like sharing the same eye color, instead of one of the rarest curses in all of Thedas.

“It has been troublesome my whole life,” she continued, her voice unsure, betraying her unease. She expected her revelation to cause a stir of some kind, but his calm demeanor was unexpectedly soothing and frustrating. Did he not experience similar struggles? He listened with a depth of understanding that made her feel both vulnerable and cherished. Sometimes, his flirting and gentle teasing made her feel inexperienced, but now his sincerity was overwhelming.

“People are seldom open to those who are different,” he concluded, his voice steady with the weight of experience. There was a shared resonance in his words that touched on the loneliness of feeling out of place.

“Yes,” she sighed, feeling a pang of resignation and a surge of likeness. She observed him for a while, meeting his expression filled with curiosity and tenderness with a similar one. She had never met someone like him, and with every conversation they shared, she felt that new feeling in her chest deepen by a bit. That feeling was burrowing itself deeply in her heart, slowly and gently, like roots winding their way through the soil, quietly and persistently, until they become a part of the earth itself. That feeling left her without words with what was supposed to fill it. For a moment he was about to say something, then a loud crash echoed from above, followed by a commotion of panicked voices that cut through the air, reminding her of the world outside their conversation. The moving was still taking place, everywhere was chaos. Solas took a half step back, regaining some distance.

“I suggest we continue this conversation away from the noise,” he said, gesturing toward the door with a soft, encouraging smile. She nodded in agreement, and they made their way to a quieter part of Skyhold.

As they walked, he asked questions, and she recounted how she had hidden her abilities due to the stigma surrounding Dreamers—the fear of possession and the notion that they attracted negative spirits. She had taught herself to confine her presence in a protective cage, a measure that kept her safe.

“This is both remarkable and troubling,” Solas said, his tone imbued with genuine concern. “The Fade is a realm of wonders, and someone with your innate connection should not be confined but guided to explore its beauty. It is a disservice to force yourself into isolation. Being a Dreamer is not a curse, but one of the greatest blessings this world allows.”

Solas spoke with a warmth and depth that was just natural for him when the Fade was concerned, he started sharing vivid descriptions of the Fade’s wonders from the perspective of a Dreamer, what she could do if she learned. He answered her questions with patience, his insights revealing the richness of the world she had been too afraid to fully experience. Their conversation extended into the evening, ranging from the Fade, to philosophy, musing about the world and magic that filled her with warmth. While they talked, the golden hues of the setting sun cast a soft glow over them as Skyhold settled into the twilight. They had just kept walking aimlessly the whole time, interrupted by a report that the Inquisitor needed to see, questions on tapestries, a soldier asking for blessings that she redirected to Mother Giselle. Every time she patiently answered as Solas observed her silently, but with an intensity that gouged through her skull. An intensity that turned into questions on her decisions and that became charged moments that inevitably melted into nothing. It was maddening.

When the light of day began to fade, Solas turned to her with a gentle intensity. “If I were to be with you, would you be willing to step out of your cage, even if just for one night?” The proposal caught her off guard. The cage had been her sanctuary for as long as she could remember—limiting but safe. The thought of stepping out, of facing the unknown with someone else, was both thrilling and terrifying.

She faltered, her thoughts swirling, but Solas took her hand in his, tentatively, like she would reject him. But his touch was warm and reassuring, his eyes a steady pool of blue. “I would be there with you. You don’t have to face this alone anymore.” His words struck a chord deep within her, a mix of relief and something more profound. She was not used to receiving help,she was used to being the one who others came to for guidance and support, either as the older sister, a First, or the Inquisitor. But the sincerity in his eyes, the warmth that radiated from him, and the tenderness in his touch melted her. His presence was both a shield and an invitation, promising safety in vulnerability.

She nodded.

Solas smiled, his expression tender as he held her hand for a moment longer before gently letting go. Their eyes still lingered on the other for a moment, before a winded messenger raced towards them, with a missive in hand.

-

That night, after the inner circle’s dinner, he retired early, shooting her a look of understanding. She shortly after announced her departure, and also retired. To her surprise, when she opened the door to her room, Solas was there. She stood on the top of the stairs, not sure what to say, when he turned from the balcony and greeted her with a small smile.

“Inquisitor, are you ready for your first real journey in the Fade?” 

She stood there for another moment, stunned, before replying ”I didn’t expect to find you here”. He recoiled slightly, like he realized only in that moment how inappropriate the situation might be.

”My intention was never to cause you discomfort. I merely thought that, should an emergency arise, my presence nearby might offer you help, should you need it. I hoped it would grant you peace of mind.” he adds “However I can leave” he offers. 

She shakes her head no ”I’m sorry, it was just unexpected. You can stay” 

“Are you sure? It is no offense”

Nuria nodded. He stood there for a couple more seconds, then showed her a simple spell to ward herself before sleeping 

“Dreamers find themselves falling asleep in the most unexpected places. It’s a moment of vulnerability for our bodies, the first thing to learn is to protect ourselves” 

She remembered him mentioning something along those lines before, but listened intently as he showed her the spell. Once it was completed, he announced 

“Now we can sleep” that said, he grabbed her desk’s chair and propped it next to her bed. While doing so he added “It will be easier if we maintain contact in the Waking during the journey. If you are comfortable with it, I will hold your hand.” he added, chair still in hand, in case she wanted to say no. 

”Absolutely not” she said, taking him by surprise with the absolute tone she took ”You have been so kind as to offer to help, I can’t have you sleep on a chair. The bed is enormous” she pointed to the generously sized bed “Half of my clan could sleep there” she added with a small smile. 

Dalish didn’t have the luxury of fixed beds, something like that was excessive, as she tried to tell Josephine once that thing appeared in her room. “We can share,” she added. She wanted to sound confident, but regardless of the obnoxious gigantic size of it she had never shared a bed with a man she was attracted to, that was reason enough to be embarrassed, but she didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. He regarded her for a bit, with an unreadable expression, and finally agreed with a nod. He put the chair back at the desk. He then lay down as close to the edge of the bed as physically possible and extended a hand, waiting. She joined him, trying and failing at looking confident and unbothered, then took it. 

Her heart was pounding in her chest loudly, maybe enough for him to notice, because he asked, neutrally 

”I can put you to sleep with a spell” he pauses “If you’re particularly nervous about the journey”. Is she so see-through? 

She sighed and said “Thank you”.

He crawled to her side of the bed, his presence reassuring and unnerving at one time. He hovered a hand over her forehead, gently. “Good night, Nuria,” he said softly. He never called her by name before, and she found that she liked the sound of it a bit too much. Before she could dwell on it, his magic activated. As his hand traveled down her face, she felt a wave of calm wash over her, a warmth, then she drifted into sleep.

When she came to in the Fade, she was in a fetal position, as she was every night. The moment she tentatively opened her eyes, she saw Solas, hands behind his back, waiting for her outside her cage, a reassuring smile on his face. 

She sat up and tentatively said, “Welcome?”

“Thank you, but why the question?” he replied, guarded amusement on his face.

“Is that what you’re supposed to say when someone comes into your corner of the Fade? I’m not sure if there’s a custom,” she said, her voice uncertain as she pushed herself in a standing position. Just a habit, she was leaning on air and she stood on nothing. But in the Fade the rules of the Waking didn’t matter.

A hint of humor colored Solas’ face as he responded, “There was in the time of Ancient Arlathan, but I hardly think it would apply to this situation.”

She looked around; the landscape around them was the same as it always was: barren hills, menacing and unfamiliar. He caught her look and asked, “Why do you choose to project this image?”

“I don’t… Is it my choice?” she asked calmly.

He nodded. “It is part of your protection system. I will admit, it’s impressive that you were able to both build a cage as you entered the Fade and create this landscape. It seems that these hills are free of demons but also threatening enough not to tempt you out of the cage. If you allow me, I can change the landscape.”

“Like you did for Haven?” she asked

He nodded again. “All right,” she agreed, bracing herself, sitting in her cage, rigid.

With a wave of his hand, the hills were erased. They now stood in a vast, ethereal landscape, the sky a swirling mass of colors, and the ground beneath them a mosaic of dreams and memories. She looked around in awe, taking in the beauty of the Fade, incredulous. Solas’ presence was the only anchoring image in this strange, wondrous place.

“This is the Fade,” he said softly, his voice echoing in the dreamlike realm. “And tonight, you will see it not from within your cage, but as it truly is.”

She stood, taking in the beautiful scenery. The colors, the shapes, it was all so otherworldly, but it didn’t look menacing. That made her suspicious. If all of Thedas had one thing in common, it was the belief that the Fade was dangerous, full of malevolent spirits, and exploring it would lead to possession. She couldn’t just let go of something that was ingrained in her brain for her whole life in a moment, but some of the fear she felt had melted in that sea of colors. She turned to Solas, suspicion in her eyes.

“How do I know you’re not a demon?” she asked, her voice tinged with doubt.

Solas’ expression softened. He stepped closer to the cage, his eyes never leaving hers. “You built this cage to give no access to anything belonging to the Fade, right?” She nodded. He extended his hand through the bars of the cage, offering it to her. “I don’t belong to the Fade any more than you do. I am no demon.”

She searched his eyes for any sign of deceit but found only sincerity and warmth. The colors of the Fade danced around them, casting shifting shadows on his face. “I want to believe you,” she said, her voice trembling. Her heart pounded in her chest, fear and hope warring within her.

“Trust me,” he asked, patiently and tenderly. After a moment, she reached out and grasped his hand. His grip was warm and reassuring, grounding her in the surreal landscape of the Fade.

With his help, she slowly stood up and stepped out of the cage. The moment she did, a sense of liberation washed over her. The cage dissolved behind her, and she was free, standing in the vast, vibrant expanse of the Fade.

Solas smiled, his expression filled with pride. “Welcome to the Fade, Nuria. Now, let me show you its wonders.”

As they walked together, hand in hand, the landscape continued to transform around them, revealing breathtaking vistas and fantastical creatures. She marveled at the beauty and wonder that she had never dared to explore before. That was the night she met the Spirit of Curiosity borne from her, that night just a hovering ball of light, shining in unnatural and beautiful colors. And just at the edge of her vision, she noticed another spirit, always observing, just out of reach and sight.

For the first time, she felt a sense of belonging in the Fade, a sense of wonder and possibility that she had never known before. That night Solas held her hand the whole time. Oh, how things change.

-

The memory melted, and the Inquisitor was with Curiosity again, translating her thoughts “I wonder if he still thinks about me. We can ask him!” Curiosity seemed particularly proud of being able to make such a useful suggestion. Nuria had no heart to tell the giant bee with no wings but massive gorilla limbs the truth, so she just suggested

“Later, why don’t we check that memory?” she pointed out at a random memory.

Curiosity immediately jumped at the opportunity. Nuria chuckled. Curiosity was adorable. That night she didn’t find useful memories, but kept exploring with Curiosity and Mystery, in its own way.

Chapter Text

VARRIC

The grand hall of Kirkwall’s High Council was ablaze with the soft glow of candlelight, casting flickering shadows on the walls lined with tapestries depicting the city’s storied past. Nobles and prominent figures from various sectors filled the room, murmuring amongst themselves as they awaited the evening’s debate. At the center of the room, the long mahogany table was set for the council's most heated discussion yet: the recent disappearances of several city elves, a subject that had gripped the city’s attention.

Varric stood at one end of the table, his signature smirk replaced by a look of steelness. Beside him, his aides and supporters waited attentively. Across from him, Lady Evelina Dumar sat regally, her demeanor calm yet commanding. Evelina was surprisingly young to have gathered that much praise and attention in the council. She was the youngest daughter of the Dumars, a family that once ruled the city as Viscounts. Though her family lost its grip on power, Evelina has worked tirelessly to restore their influence. She was well-educated, politically astute, and had a keen understanding of Kirkwall’s history and its many factions. Everything about her was regal: her robes that looked neat and timeless, the way her straight black hair were pinned in an overly complicated half updo, her eyes, black pools, sharp and calculating, that met Varric’s with a mixture of challenge and disdain.

The room fell silent as the debate commenced. Evelina rose gracefully, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Ladies and gentlemen,” she began, her tone smooth and persuasive, “The recent disappearances of our elven residents are indeed troubling. However, we must address this issue with pragmatism, not sentimentality.”

Varric, his posture relaxed but his eyes intent, leaned forward. “Pragmatism is all well and good, Evelina, but we’re talking about people—disappearing without a trace. This isn’t just about policies or trade; this is about lives. What are you suggesting we do?”

Evelina’s smile was a practiced blend of sympathy and condescension. “What I suggest, Master Tethras, is that we focus on the facts. We need to assess the situation objectively and consider what resources we have available. Speculation and emotional appeals won’t help anyone.”

Varric’s eyes narrowed. “And what do you propose? A committee to gather more ‘facts’? To dispatch yet another note of solidarity and empty promises while elves are vanishing from the streets, and the city’s poorest are left to fend for themselves?”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, and Evelina’s composure wavered slightly. “That is precisely why we need a controlled and measured response. Rushing into the matter without a clear plan will only lead to more chaos. I advocate for a committee to evaluate the risks not only for the Alienage, but for all residents, not wild accusations and unverified claims.”

Varric’s jaw tightened. “The problem is that a committee that will release yet another empty statement isn’t enough. We need increased patrols and a thorough investigation, and this is a community that has been systematically marginalized. They're always the first victims, but reports state that patrols have been moved to High Town, where there have been exactly zero kidnappings.”

Viscount Bran, perched silently on his balcony, moved for the first time since the start of the meeting, shifting his weight.

Evelina’s eyes flashed with a hint of irritation. “And what would you suggest, Varric? That we divert funds from essential services to chase shadows? We have a budget to consider, and we can’t simply throw resources at every issue that arises.”

“I’m not asking for a blank check,” Varric shot back. “I’m asking for an acknowledgment of the problem and a genuine commitment to address it. Elves are disappearing, and the city’s response has been tepid at best. If you truly care about Kirkwall’s future, you’ll put aside political games and face this issue head-on.”

Evelina’s gaze was icy, her tone clipped. “It’s not about political games, Varric. It’s about governance. You and your idealism may sound noble, but there are practical limits to what we can do. I suggest we prioritize what’s feasible and avoid grandstanding.”

Varric’s frustration was palpable. “Feasibility isn’t a substitute for action. If we wait for conditions to be ‘perfect,’ we’ll be waiting forever while more people suffer. Kirkwall needs leadership that isn’t afraid to take risks and stand up for those who can’t stand up for themselves.”

The tension in the room was thick, the opposing views creating a palpable divide. The council members shifted uneasily in their seats, clearly torn between the persuasive arguments of both sides.

The voting was swift, and ended in Varric's favor, even though just by a small margin. The Viscount had observed from his balcony in silence, witnessing as the ordeal took place. Varric felt his eyes on him, studying him, evaluating him, deciding what to make of his every move. He knew it and felt it. And he knew that aligning himself more with Evelina would have played in his favor with the Viscount, but Kirkwall was his city, where his people were suffering and struggling, and he couldn't ignore that. Not that normal guard work could have helped if it was Corypheus, but people needed a bit of hope to go on. Or they soon would have another Circle situation.

Finally, Evelina took a deep breath, her expression softening slightly. “Very well, Varric, it seems you won this one. The council supports additional funding for investigation and increased patrols, but only if it’s accompanied by a clear, actionable plan. We cannot afford to be reckless.”

Varric inclined his head in acknowledgement, though his eyes remained hard. “That’s a start. Let’s see how committed you are to solving this crisis.”

As the council adjourned, the two adversaries exchanged a final, pointed look. The room buzzed with speculation and whispered debates as the members filtered out. The battle over Kirkwall’s future was far from over, and both Varric and Evelina knew that their conflict was far from resolved.

Outside the council hall, the night air was cool, but not cool enough to calm Varric. Could it be that Evelina was working with the Viscount? She had spoken as for him, but his old allies in the room still didn't trust him enough to clarify the situation fully. High Town folks were more fickle with their allies than the pimps at the docks. And if the Viscount really is connected to Coypheus, is that all just a ruse to get help away from the problem? This was an ongoing struggle for Kirkwall’s soul.

INQUISITOR

The journey towards Kirkwall had been a grueling march, the slow and steady pace wearing on the Inquisitor's patience. She found herself longing for the days when she traveled with a small group of companions, moving swiftly and striking with precision. Now, as a common soldier, she was acutely aware of the endless chain of command and the venomous looks from those who blamed her for their commander's arrest. 

For the first time in a very long time, she wasn't in the role of the leader. As a First, she had been in a leadership position ever since she was young. Even as the youngest in the Clan council her words carried weight, and she had always been under scrutiny, because everyone was aware that one day, Nuria Lavellan would lead them. Then as the Herald and the Inquisitor, once again, she had been a leader. She wasn’t really used to being at the bottom of the leadership chain, being the one that has to listen and obey. Ever since the captain was taken away, she had secretly received thanks and support from women and elves that had been affected by him, just to be ignored or harassed by the same people publicly. She had found unsavory messages in her belongings, found herself with the worst duties to perform, and generally only the support of Sheranna and Zore helped her get through each day. At night she was exhausted, not used to walking for so long in armor. 

But the discomfort of her social standing wasn’t what worried her: she was aware that there were spies in the Inquisition, that probably Corypheus’ people were among the delegation she was traveling with. And through that experience she became acutely aware that going against power meant potential disaster, attracting attention and getting discovered. That mistake could have cost her the whole operation, and once in Kirkwall, she had to keep her head down at all costs.

She talked about it with Sheranna. She was a city elf, and she told her some common things to expect that didn’t sound nearly as normal as the woman described them to be.

“We are taught that we live and die by the human’s grace. In the Alienages it’s like they built walls to keep us separate, but also to keep us contained. If an elf raises too high they disappear, or some humans make an example of them. We’re tolerated, but only just.”

Nuria’s expression softened with empathy. "That sounds... isolating."

“It is,” Sheranna agreed. “But it’s also home. We grow up knowing we have to stick together because no one else will help us. My parents used to say we are like the roots of the trees, hidden and overlooked, but strong enough to survive even when everything else around us falls apart.”

Nuria nodded slowly, imagining the life Sheranna described. “But it must be hard to always be looked down on, to always have to fight for everything.”

Sheranna’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “You learn to pick your battles. You learn who you can trust, who you can’t, and how to navigate the world without drawing too much attention. The guards, the merchants, even other servants—to them, we’re less. You grow up fast in the alienage. You learn the rules, the unspoken ones, and you learn them quick, or you don’t survive. Like I nearly didn’t. If not for Leliana, I would have been just another nameless dead rabbit”

-

The Fade was where she felt free and useful. Instead of marching silently, she took charge of her learning, exploring, uncovering memories that allowed them to avoid a couple ambushes, taking lessons from the Verdant Luminary and sparring with Valor. Yet, even there, she had to be cautious, warding off demons and pesky spirits of Love.

As the Inquisitor wistfully thought of a plan to sleep during the day without arousing suspicion, a scout came running down the line, shouting, "Prepare for battle!"

Zora and Sheranna immediately moved to her side, ready to protect her. The delegation swiftly formed ranks, the sound of clinking armor and drawn weapons filling the air. The tension was palpable as they prepared to face the threat.

They soon came upon a chaotic scene. A group of Venatori were under attack by a horde of darkspawn. The Venatori, caught off guard and outnumbered, were fighting desperately, but their lines were breaking. The Inquisitor’s heart pounded as she took in the scene, the darkspawn's guttural roars and the Venatori's cries of pain creating a grim cacophony.

The Inquisition forces charged into the fray with a battle cry, steel meeting flesh in a clash of weapons. The Inquisitor moved with practiced precision but with the staggering of someone that was fighting in a way they were not accustomed to. She mainly used barriers that didn’t attract attention, but since the Venatori were there she allowed herself a few minor cold spells that didn’t require her to use her staff. Zora and Sheranna fought beside her, one with her shield raised and the other with daggers flashing to protect her from the onslaught.

A particularly large darkspawn, a Hurlock Alpha, lunged at the Sheranna. She ducked under its swing, slicing its leg with a sharp barrier, a trick she recently cooked up, and causing it to stumble. Then she seized the opportunity, bashing it with her shield and driving it back. Zore leaped onto its back, driving her daggers into its neck and bringing it down.

Around them, the Inquisition soldiers fought fiercely, their training and discipline giving them an edge over the chaotic darkspawn. The Venatori, seeing the tide turning, rallied and fought alongside the Inquisition, a temporary alliance born out of necessity. The battlefield was a maelstrom of blood and steel, with darkspawn falling under the relentless assault.

The Inquisitor moved through the battlefield like a whirlwind, her spells, as she can summon them given the situation, finding their mark again and again, slowing down targets, tripping them, pinning them in place in order for an ally to place a perfect blow. She saw a Venatori mage struggling against a Darkspawn, and without hesitation, she threw one of her ice daggers, striking the Darkspawn in the eye and saving the mage. She was slowly getting used to have a smaller pool of spells at her disposal, but used the little she had with more precision and cunning.

As the battle raged on, the Inquisition forces began to gain the upper hand. The Darkspawn, disorganized and leaderless, started to fall back. The Inquisitor and her soldiers pressed the advantage, driving the Darkspawn into a retreat. The last of the Darkspawn were cut down, and the battlefield fell silent.

The Inquisitor surveyed the scene, breathing heavily. The ground was littered with the bodies of darkspawn and Venatori alike. The Inquisition soldiers tended to their wounded, and the Venatori, realizing they were outmatched, surrendered. Cullen approached the leader of the Venatori, a stern-faced woman who looked at her with a mix of fear and defiance.

"You have fought bravely," Cullen said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "But your cause is lost. Surrender, and you will be treated fairly."

The Venatori leader hesitated, then nodded. "We surrender."

The Inquisition soldiers quickly disarmed the remaining Venatori and began securing the area. The Inquisitor watched them work, her mind already turning to the next steps. She found it perplexing that the Venatori and Darkspawn were fighting each other instead of working together. This unusual conflict warranted further investigation, perhaps even delving into the Fade to uncover the truth.

She spotted Cullen going in a command tent, he surely was busy with high-ranking officers. Grabbing a parchment from one of the dead Venatori, a glyph of a destructive spell, she rolled it up and headed for the tent. The battlefield was still chaotic, and guards were not yet posted. She entered the tent with the parchment in hand and head bowed, partially covering her face as she walked in.

Three high-ranking officers and Cullen turned to her, and one, a stern human woman in her forties, asked dismissively, "What is it?"

"I have found something that might be important. Commander Cullen should look at it," she said, trying to keep her tone neutral. Cullen understood that she was trying to find an excuse to talk in private. He nodded.

"I’ll summon you when we’re done, soldier. Wait outside the tent," he commanded, maintaining his martial air.

"Yes, Commander!" she responded obediently, stepping outside to wait. Frustration simmered as she stood there, but she took the opportunity to survey the battlefield. Venatori captives were being dragged away, and the scene was one of organized chaos.

Boredom set in quickly as she stood idle. Her thoughts drifted to the book Cullen had given her, "Collection of Works in Elvhenan." She hadn't had the time or privacy to read it yet. It was in her small satchel, along with her most precious belongings. She often looked at the portrait in moments of weakness, tracing each brushstroke with fondness before tucking it away again.

Curiosity piqued, she moved to the side of the tent, gingerly opening the book. She knew she shouldn't do this on the battlefield, but with everyone else busy, she couldn't resist. She opened the volume, and the first page was a collection of rhymes. Translating on the go was challenging, especially with her imperfect grasp of the language, but she was determined.

The first rhyme was a sweet children's verse about stars and magic, depicting each star as a spell cast to create a path of star Eluvians. 

Twinkling bright, oh so high,

Stars that call me in the night

Guiding dreams with silver light

Step by step, we journey far,

On a trail of wishes, star to star,

Through the realms of moonlit gleams,

To the land of shining dreams.

Where the night is soft and true,

And the stars all sing for you,

In the sky, they dance and play,

Leading us till break of day.

The next few were more complex, philosophical musings that required more time and calm to understand. She skipped them. Then she stumbled upon a short poem about love:

In twilight's gentle embrace, 

we danced 'neath the silvered boughs, 

Eternity was ours, 

yet fleeting were the moments we held dear. 

O Fen'Harel, why dost thou form the Veil, 

separating heart from heart?

She read it twice, baffled. Why would Fen’harel ‘create’ the Veil? Create? As if there was a time where the Veil didn’t exist? She must have translated it wrong. She focused intently on the text, and it seemed that her translation was correct. It can't be however, right? She was interrupted by movement in the tent. Quickly tucking the book away, she saw Cullen peer out, looking around.

"I'm here," she said, still a little shaken. 

There was no time for ancient mysteries now; the interrogation of the remaining Venatori mages demanded her attention. She straightened her posture as Cullen stepped out of the tent, his gaze scanning the surroundings before landing on her. With a nod, he gestured for her to follow him back inside. She adjusted her stance, took a deep breath to steady herself, and entered the tent behind him.

The officers left, and they were alone. He closed the flap of the tent quickly, moving closer to her, his eyes searching her face with concern. "Is everything all right?" he asked, placing a gentle hand on hers. They both wore gloves and were still grimy from the battlefield.

"Yes," she confirmed with a smile. "Were you hurt?" she asked back.

He shook his head. "No." They stood there for a moment, an unspoken tension hanging between them.

Nuria broke the silence. "I think we need to interrogate the Venatori mages, and I want to be present."

Cullen nodded, his thumb tracing absent circles on her palm. "Is that all?" he asked, his gaze intense and searching.

"Yes?" she replied, slightly confused. His expression shifted to one of disappointment, and he sighed.

"Did I do something wrong?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern. Did he expect something more personal, more intimate?

Cullen hesitated, then spoke softly. "It's just... we've been through so much together. Sometimes I wish we could have a moment just for ourselves, away from all this." His eyes softened, revealing the vulnerability beneath his commanding exterior. 

She smiles fondly “We’ll get some time to rest when we get to Kirkwall, I hope”

“Yes” he adds, without much conviction 

A soldier enters the tent, interrupting the privacy of their conversation “Sir, we’ve got news from the infirmary” he starts 

“Dismissed” he says to the Nuria, and she walks out the tent.

-

Later the interrogation takes place. The tent was dimly lit, shadows flickering across its canvas walls as the Inquisitor and Cullen stood across from the bound Venatori mage. The mage, a wiry man with sharp features and eyes full of defiance, sat on a wooden chair, his wrists bound by thick ropes.

Cullen crossed his arms, his expression stern. "State your name," he commanded.

The mage sneered. "Why should I? You'll get nothing from me."

Nuria stepped forward, her voice calm but firm. "You will cooperate, or we will ensure you face the consequences of your actions. We know you have information on Corypheus's operations in Kirkwall."

The mage's sneer faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure. "I know nothing of the sort."

Nuria exchanged a glance with Cullen before leaning in closer to the mage. "We have ways of extracting the truth," she said softly. "Spare yourself the pain and tell us what we need to know."

The mage's eyes darted around the tent, looking for an escape that wasn't there. He remained silent.

Cullen stepped closer, his presence imposing. "We've already dealt with your kind before. We know how Corypheus operates, and we know he has allies in Kirkwall. Tell us who they are."

The mage clenched his jaw, his defiance slowly crumbling under the pressure. "You think you can intimidate me? Corypheus is more powerful than you can imagine. He is a God, and you will all fall."

Nuria's eyes narrowed. "Corypheus's power doesn't scare us. But your fate depends on your cooperation. Tell us what you know, and we’ll offer some leniency."

The mage hesitated, the conflict evident on his face. Finally, he sighed, the fight leaving his eyes. "Fine. There's a contact in Kirkwall. An influential figure who has been aiding Corypheus. Goes by the name Varric Tethras."

Cullen's brow furrowed in confusion before both he and Nuria burst into laughter.

"Varric Tethras?" Cullen chuckled. "Really? That's the best you can come up with? You're grasping at straws."

Nuria shook her head, still smiling. "You're either a terrible liar, or you think we're complete fools."

The mage's expression turned to one of frustration. "Believe what you want. But if you don't act on this information, you'll regret it."

Nuria's smile faded as she stepped even closer, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. "You seem to misunderstand your situation. I am a Dreamer. I can walk the Fade and extract the truth directly from your mind. If you do not tell me what I want to know, I will simply take it."

The mage's eyes widened slightly, but he quickly masked his fear. "You wouldn't dare."

Nuria leaned in, her gaze piercing. "Oh, but I would. And not only that,” She got closer, her voice inviting and dangerous at the same time “I can do far worse. I can make you relive your worst nightmares, strip away your sanity piece by piece until there's nothing left but a shell. So I suggest you start talking before I decide to take a walk in your mind."

The mage swallowed hard, the color draining from his face. "You're bluffing."

Nuria straightened up "Am I?" She smiled menacingly

The mage's resolve broke, his defiance crumbling. "Alright, alright! There's a mage in Kirkwall, Tevinter-born, goes by the name Marcellus. He’s been working with Corypheus to establish a foothold in the city. He's not as high-profile as Varric, but he's dangerous and well-connected."

”Good boy” Nuria leaned forward, her gaze piercing. "What were you doing with the Darkspawn?” 

"They were not of our own. He still doesn’t have complete control of all Darkspawn”

Nuria glanced at Cullen, who nodded slightly. She turned back to the mage. "Thank you for your cooperation. But remember, if I find out you've lied, you’ll see me in the Fade"

The mage slumped in his chair, defeated. 

“There’s one more thing” 

Nuria turns and nods “There’s another entity controlling part of the Darkspawn. But I don’t know anything else, I swear” he says, panicking. Nuria blinks, turns, and the coldness and cruelty in her behavior thwart

Cullen gestured to the guards outside the tent. "Take him away and keep him under watch."

As the guards dragged the mage out, Nuria turned to Cullen. "We need to verify this information about Marcellus and take action quickly."

Cullen nodded. "Agreed. If Marcellus is working with Corypheus, we can't afford to wait. Let's move."

SOLAS 

Among the things that he was sent to study in the outskirts of Kirkwall, there was a supposed red lyrium operation by one of Corypheus’ minions. Nuria suspected it could be the Marcellus she heard about, she told him through a message, and she asked him to investigate a location of the Venatori mages revealed. And the Dread Wolf obeyed the Moon’s wishes.

Solas stood at the entrance of the cave, the cool night air brushing against his face as he observed the eerie red glow emanating from within. The glow of red lyrium filled the air with a heavy, oppressive energy that made his skin prickle. He turned to his small unit, his expression neutral, though his mind churned with the implications of what they might find inside.

"Stay alert," he instructed, his voice calm but firm. "This place reeks of corruption. We must proceed with caution."

Fedin, shot him a cocky grin. "Don’t worry about us, Solas. Loran and I can handle whatever’s in there."

Loran, nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, we’ve got this. Besides, it’s just a cave, right?"

Solas regarded the two young elves, their eagerness reminding him of his own youthful arrogance. He could sense the potential in them, but also the recklessness. It was a dangerous combination, especially in a place like this.

Dod, the dwarven warrior, hefted his axe onto his shoulder with a grunt. "Let’s get this over with. Red lyrium makes my skin crawl, and that’s saying something, coming from a dwarf."

Garret, the human warrior, remained silent, his eyes scanning the surroundings with practiced caution. He was a seasoned fighter, more reserved and disciplined than the younger elves. Solas appreciated that about him.

"Remember," Solas said, "we are not here to engage unnecessarily. Our goal is to investigate and gather information. We must understand what Corypheus’s agents are doing here and stop them if possible."

The group nodded, their expressions serious as they entered the cave. The air grew thick with tension as they descended deeper into the mine. The walls were jagged, with veins of red lyrium pulsing like the arteries of a living creature. The deeper they went, the more oppressive the atmosphere became. The lyrium’s taint was palpable, a constant hum that threatened to invade their minds. Solas could feel the pull of the red lyrium, an insidious whisper at the edge of his consciousness. He steeled himself against it, focusing on his goals. He led the group cautiously, his eyes flicking over every shadow, every glint of red that might signal danger.

They reached a large chamber where the walls were lined with rough-hewn alcoves filled with harvested red lyrium. Barrels of the substance were stacked haphazardly, and the acrid smell of some sort of drug-making process filled the air.

"By the Stone," Dod muttered, his voice low. "This is more than just a mine. They’re manufacturing something."

Solas nodded, his expression darkening as he stepped closer to one of the barrels. He could see traces of a substance—an unnatural powder, likely laced with red lyrium—spilling out from one of the containers. The thought of what this could do to those who consumed it or were exposed to it filled him with cold dread.

"This is worse than I feared," he said softly. "Corypheus’s agents are turning red lyrium into a consumable. This could spread his corruption faster than we anticipated."

Fedin, who had been inspecting one of the alcoves, called out, "Solas, over here!"

Solas approached, finding the young elf standing over a crude workbench. Scattered across it were notes, written in a hasty script. Solas scanned the papers, recognizing the hand of someone who had been in a hurry to write something important before running or being captured. It was a prayer to the Maker to be forgiven, and the formula of a substance, not the one in the containers, but Solas couldn’t stop there to study and understand what it all was about, as well as mentions of shipments to various locations throughout Kirkwall and beyond.

"They want to use this filth across Thedas?" Loran said, his voice tinged with anger. "We can’t let this continue."

"We won’t," Solas replied, his tone resolute. "But we must be careful. We still don’t know the full extent of this operation."

Castor, who had been standing guard near the entrance to the chamber, spoke up. "We should destroy this place. Collapse the mine and bury the red lyrium. That’ll stop them from making any more of this drug."

Solas considered the suggestion, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. "We can’t just collapse the mine. We need to understand how far this operation reaches. If we act too quickly, we risk missing crucial information."

Dod grumbled, but nodded in agreement. "Fine, but let’s make it quick. This place is giving me the creeps."

As they continued to search the chamber, Solas couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching them. The oppressive energy of the red lyrium seemed to pulse in time with their movements, growing stronger the deeper they went.

Suddenly, Fedin froze, his eyes narrowing. "Did you hear that?"

The group fell silent, straining to listen. At first, there was nothing but the faint hum of the lyrium, but then… a low, rumbling sound, like the growl of a distant beast, echoed through the cave.

"Something’s coming," Castor said, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword.

Solas’s eyes flicked to the shadows, his heart pounding in his chest. They needed to leave—now. "We’ve seen enough. Gather what you can, and we’ll withdraw."

The group quickly collected the most crucial notes and vials of the drug before retreating from the chamber. As they made their way back toward the entrance, the rumbling grew louder, and the walls seemed to tremble with every step.

They emerged into the night air, breathless and tense. Behind them, the cave entrance shuddered, dust and pebbles falling from the ceiling as the mine seemed to react to their intrusion.

"We need to warn the Inquisition," Solas said, his voice firm. "This is no ordinary lyrium mine. Corypheus is using red lyrium to spread his influence, and we must stop him before it’s too late."

Fedin and Loran exchanged a glance, their earlier bravado tempered by the seriousness of the situation. Dod hefted his axe, his expression grim. Castor nodded, already prepared for the battle ahead. Solas took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. Corypheus surprised him. He thought he would just act like the wounded egotistical creature he was and waltz into Skyhold to be defeated by the Inquisitor, but he was doing something different. Was someone whispering in his ear? If so, who?

VARRIC

The warm afternoon sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of the Hanged Man, casting colorful patches of light on the worn wooden tables. The usual din of the tavern filled the air, but in a quiet corner, Varric sat with his brow furrowed in deep concentration, a crumpled piece of parchment clenched in his hand.

“She will be happy hearing from you. She thinks you finally forgot” Cole just appeared beside him

“Have you become a spirit of Love now Cole?”

“I am Compassion.” He says “And you said I couldn’t help you with Hawke”

It was fair. The two main concerns in his life were those two after all. “You’re right Kid. It’s just that sometimes people don’t want help and prefer to suffer”

“Like Solas?”

Varric laughs

“Yeah, he’s the king of unnecessary suffering”

“More like a God” Cole said “When people sang together, they sang of that. He said no, they said yes. He said no again, but they wouldn’t listen”

“Sure” says Varric, not understanding a word.

"Boss?" Jan asked, her voice tinged with concern as he leaned against the bar. "Are you talking by yourself?"

Varric sighed and finally set the parchment down. Cole disappeared, and he suspected that poor Jan had actually never seen him, "It's just an important letter. We've got a Venatori mage in the city, Marcellus. And it sounds like he's after something big. Something that could make Corypheus unstoppable."

Jan's eyes widened. "Do you know where to start looking?"

Varric nodded. "I've got an idea. And I've already asked for some help. Merrill should be here any minute."

As if on cue, the door to the tavern swung open, and Merrill slipped in, her eyes scanning the room until they landed on Varric. She smiled brightly and made her way over.

"Varric! It’s good to see you," she greeted him warmly, her accent lilting with excitement and a hint of nervousness.

Varric returned her smile, albeit with a touch of gravity. "Good to see you too, Daisy. We've got some work to do."

Merrill's expression grew serious as she sat down. "What’s happened?"

Varric handed her the letter. "We've got a Venatori mage named Marcellus in the city, working under Corypheus. We need to find out what he's up to and stop him."

"I know," Varric interrupted. "That's why we need to move fast. I was thinking we start with the Undercity. I know a guy."

Varric leaned back in his chair, folding the parchment carefully and slipping it into his vest pocket. He met Merrill's concerned gaze and gave her a reassuring nod. "We'll head to the Undercity and see what we can dig up. The guy I know down there owes me a favor. If anyone has heard about Marcellus, it'll be him."

Merrill, ever the optimist despite the gravity of the situation, smiled with a hint of nervous energy. "Lead the way.”

The two of them made their way through the winding streets of Kirkwall, with Cole silently trailing behind, as he often did. The shadows of the city seemed to grow longer as they descended into the Undercity—a maze of damp, narrow alleys where the sunlight barely reached. It was a place of secrets, where deals were made in whispers and loyalty was bought and sold.

As they reached the entrance to a small, unassuming building with a sign that was too faded to read, Varric turned to Merrill and Cole. "Stay close, and let me do the talking."

Merrill nodded, her wide eyes taking in the surroundings. Cole merely blinked at Varric, his expression unreadable.

Varric pushed open the door, and they stepped into a dimly lit room that reeked of stale ale and unwashed bodies. A few unsavory characters lurked in the corners, eyeing them suspiciously. Behind a makeshift counter stood a burly man with a scar running down the side of his face. He was cleaning a dirty glass with a rag that looked just as filthy.

"Varric," the man grunted, barely looking up. "Been a while."

"Alton," Varric replied smoothly, leaning against the counter. “We need to talk”

“What about?” asks the skeletal man curiously. 

“Better talk here” he says walking towards a room. Once the group is in, Varric starts with a big smile

"I’m looking for information on a Venatori mage named Marcellus. Word is he's operating in Kirkwall, and I need to know what he's up to."

Alton's hand paused in its clanking. He glanced around the room before leaning in closer to Varric. "Marcellus... yeah, I’ve heard of him. Dangerous bastard. He’s got connections and the means to back up his threats. Word is, he’s been dealing with some powerful stuff. Rare lyrium, blood magic—you name it, he's dabbling in it."

Varric's expression remained neutral, but Merrill stiffened beside him. "Where can we find him?"

Alton hesitated, his eyes flicking to the door as if expecting someone to burst in. "I owe you, Varric, so I’ll tell you this much: Marcellus operates thorough the city and has powerful friends. He’s been moving product through the Undercity, but it’s not just lyrium. There’s something new. Some kind of drug. Highly addictive. Profitable as hell."

Varric frowned. "And dangerous?"

Alton nodded grimly. "Very. This isn’t something you want to get involved in, Varric. Marcellus isn’t just another thug. He’s got powers backing him up, people you can’t fight, and that means he’s got power beyond anything you’ve dealt with before. If I were you, I’d steer clear."

Varric exchanged a glance with Merrill, who looked more determined than ever. "Thanks for the warning, Alton, but you know I can’t just walk away from this."

Cole suddenly appeared behind the man, and whispers “If he finds out I’m cooked. It’s too good, I need some more now. No I shouldn’t. Yes I should. I should not”

The man sighed, running a hand through his greasy hair. "I figured as much. Just be careful, Varric. This is the kind of thing that can get you killed—or worse."

Varric nodded, slipping a coin across the counter. "Appreciate the heads-up, Alton. We’ll take it from here."

With that, Varric, Merrill, and Cole stepped back into the narrow alleys of the Undercity. Merrill's face was a mix of resolve and concern as she spoke up. "Varric, this sounds bigger than we thought. We have to stop Marcellus before he does something terrible."

Varric nodded, his mind already racing with the possibilities. "We will, Daisy. But we need to be smart about this. We’ll follow Alton and see what we can find. If Marcellus is as dangerous as Alton says, we’ll need to tread carefully."

Cole, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. "He’s hurting people, twisting their minds with magic and poison. He wants them all to be red."

Varric glanced at Cole, then back at Merrill. "Then we do what we do best. We hit him hard and fast before he has a chance to realize what's coming. Glimmer is almost here. We wait for her, we need more people"

Varric knew one thing for certain: Marcellus had no idea what was coming for him.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

Finally, Kirkwall. It had been weeks, and traveling with the delegation as a soldier hadn't been Nuria's favorite experience by far. She was all too glad to sneak away with an excuse about their unit, change into commoner clothes, and leave that experience behind with Zore and Sheranna at her side. Traveling with just two people was much faster.

Kirkwall wasn’t a breath of fresh air though, it felt foreign and claustrophobic. Nuria was used to living in nature, and sometimes struggled even in Skyhold, but this? It would take time to adjust. Tall walls loomed in every area they visited, so high she could barely see the sky at times. A sea of people thronged everywhere, with nearly no signs of green.

Sheranna seemed glad, while Zore shared Nuria's uneasiness. They exchanged looks as they traveled through the streets, using Sheranna as a guide to reach the Alienage. It wasn’t her first time there. Sheranna was used to traversing big cities, unlike her Dalish colleagues, and the smell of a thriving city made her feel home. 

Nuria faced an additional challenge her friends didn't: as a mage trained in the Fade, the weight of the place was almost physical, hindering every step. 

Kirkwall was said to be one of the places where the infamous ritual that took the Tevinter mages physically into the Fade starting the Blights took place, and she could feel it. Even though she wasn’t sleeping, the Veil was extremely thin here, heavy with spirits she could almost perceive watching and following her. Mostly spirits of Hunger, Rage and Despair, that she felt clinging onto her and likely to the people around her. She had to suppress the temptation to shrug them off her back. It would be complicated to live there. Suddenly all the exaggerated stories Varric told didn’t seem so exaggerated anymore. Because she was aware of the spirits, all the people around her just silently bore the weight of their influence without even realizing. The closer they got to the Alienage, the worse it became, both in the Waking and in the Fade. They were undoubtedly deep in the slums, the smell telling a tale of poverty and struggle, a tale heightened by the pickpocket following them, waiting for an opportunity to strike. She wondered how Solas would fare and decided to send a message later that night, asking for advice and warning him.

As they stepped through the creaking gates into the Alienage, the stark contrast to the rest of the city was immediately palpable. The air changed, becoming thick with the scent of cooking fires, herbs, and the occasional unwelcome tang of sewage. Narrow, winding streets stretched ahead, flanked by wooden structures with thatched roofs, their facades a blend of intricate elven carvings and murals, now faded and worn by time and neglect.

Buildings stood close together, creating a sense of intimacy and claustrophobia simultaneously. Small, communal courtyards interrupted the maze of alleyways, where residents gathered to share meals, stories, and news. Here, the sense of community was strong, even through the tension of the kidnappings. However as she felt the strength of a strong spirit of Resilience inhabiting the place, Nuria also felt more Spirits of Desperation and Fear than anywhere else in her life. The kidnappings and a hard life were taking a tool on these people. Children darted through the streets, their laughter a bright note in the otherwise somber atmosphere. Elders, with their weathered faces and eyes full of memories, sat together, recounting tales of the hard lives spent surviving their surroundings, their voices a soothing hum amidst the city's bustle.

Despite the resilience and spirit of its inhabitants, the Alienage was marked by hardship. Overcrowding was evident, with multiple families often crammed into single, modest homes. They could have moved into more homes, with the kidnappings, however they were likely too scared to do it, or hoped for their loved ones to come home. The architecture, though holding a rustic charm, showed signs of disrepair—cracked walls, sagging roofs, and shuttered windows that struggled to keep out the elements. Small gardens, tended with care, burst with herbs and vegetables, offering a splash of green and a hint of self-sufficiency amidst the gray.

Dominating the heart of the Alienage stands the Vhenadahl, the great "Tree of the People." Its ancient, gnarled branches spread wide, providing a canopy of green that shelters the central square. The tree is sacred, a symbol of hope and endurance, its roots sinking deep into the soil as if drawing strength from the very essence of elven history. Beneath its sprawling boughs, residents gather for important events, ceremonies, and communal discussions. The ground around the Vhenadahl is well-trodden, a testament to its role as the beating heart of the community.

At the base of the Vhenadahl, offerings are carefully arranged—small tokens of gratitude, prayers written on scraps of parchment, and intricate carvings left in reverence. This space exudes a quiet sanctity, a reminder of the elves' connection to their past and their hope for the future. The Vhenadahl is more than just a tree; it is a living link to a heritage that refuses to be forgotten.

Nuria felt a momentary sense of peace as she approached the base of the Vhenadahl. This place, at least, felt a bit like home. They approached a small group of elves seated beneath the tree, their conversations quieting as the newcomers drew near. The community was strong, and the distrust for strangers, stronger. Among them, an older elf with silver hair and wise eyes rose to greet them. He was Hahren Paivel, the respected elder of the Alienage. He was, however, drunk, his sorrow showing even in his drunken state. With him was a plump elven woman of around 50, supporting him and pretending that he was all right.

"Welcome," the hahren slurred, his eyes struggling to focus on Nuria, Zore, and Sheranna. "Merrill said you'd be coming. We've... we've been expecting you."

“I’m Corinne” said the woman. She had ebony skin, beautiful tight curls, and deep elongated brown eyes  “If you need help with anything ask me or hahren, we’ll get you sorted right away.” She points at a street “Merrill’s home is that way” she gives directions and then adds “I’m so glad someone is going to live with her. She’s strong, no doubt, by none should be alone now.”

Sheranna stepped forward, her expression softening. "Thank you, both. We are grateful for your hospitality."

The hahren nodded absently, then turned and let Corinne guide them deeper into the Alienage. They passed homes with shuttered windows and wary eyes peeking out from behind curtains. The recent kidnappings and rumors of Venatori and Corypheus plotting rituals had left the community on edge. Everyone was wary, and trust was in short supply for newcomers.

Finally, they reached a small, humble home where Merrill waited at the door, her face lighting up with a smile as she saw them. "Ilia! Zore! Sheranna! You're here!". Ilia was the fake name Nuria would be using during this mission. Merrill was acting as per their cover: they were friends she encountered in her journeys, seeking hospitality as they transferred from working in a country residence belonging to Lord Aldridge to his main estate in Kirkwall in their capacity as servants.

Merrill ushered them inside, her home a warm and welcoming contrast to the dreary streets outside. Nuria raised a sound barrier with a quick word and gesture, just in case..

"I've prepared a place for you to stay, it's not much but I hope you'll like it" she said, bustling around to make them comfortable. "Nice meeting all of you, I'm Merrill"

Nuria smiled, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "Thank you, Merrill. I look forward to getting to know you better and working together."

Merrill's eyes sparkled with determination. "We'll need all the friends we can get. There's much to discuss and even more to do. Kirkwall is in trouble, and the Inquisition's help will be invaluable."

The home was actually two adjacent rooms, and it was not designed to host 4 people. In the main room there was a small table, a kitchenette, and Merrill's personal space for alchemy work. There was the familiar chemy. There was space for a bench but not much else. 

The bedroom had nearly no floor room with 4 beds and 2 chests for the belongings of the 4 women. Nuria felt a pang of guilt at invading Merrill’s space and taking over. If they ended up staying a bit longer, she could ask Corinne for help, and maybe give Merrill some peace.

“It feels like being back in the camp, does it not?” Merrill smiles fondly, and Nuria can’t help but smile, nod and agree. It does feel like a Dalish camp. She feels nostalgia, thinking about her old clan life

As they settled in, Nuria's thoughts drifted once more to Solas and the messages she meant to send him in the Fade. As the oppressive weight of the Alienage bore on her, she missed his guidance as much as his presence. In this new, challenging place, she needed all the wisdom and support she could get. Instead she only felt the nauseating weight of the spirits sensing a mage, trained in the Fade, and a Dreamer. She was a treat, and they were children salivating in front of a candy shop. And the glass was getting thinner by the second.

But for now, she was among friends, and that was a start. Solas was not there to help her. It was her choice, and the first step to forgetting him was missing him. It was painful, but it was her choice. And it was the only right one. It was necessary, she had no other choice. She shook herself from these thoughts. She had to think of him as a respected hahren from now on. A subordinate. Not hers anymore. The nausea grew. She took a breath. It was just something new to get used to. 

Merrill's home was cozy but cramped with the addition of Nuria, Zore, and Sheranna. But a single Eluvian, an ancient elven mirror, dominated one corner of the bedroom, its surface shimmering faintly. They had ignored it for the first few minutes, but now its presence was not ignorable anymore.

Merrill beamed as she saw their curious expressions. "I know it's a bit tight, but we'll manage. This is my Eluvian. It’s... well, it's a project of mine."

Nuria and Zore exchanged intrigued glances, stepping closer to inspect the ancient artifact.

Zore observed it, fascinated. "It's beautiful. And dangerous, if the stories are true."

 "We have one at Skyhold” Nuria said, observing closely the surface of that specific Eluvian. It wasn't right, it didn't look anything like Morrigan’s mirror.

“You do?” Asked Merril, curious

“We do?” echoed Zore, shocked

“And it works” added Nuria with a conspiratorial air. 

“That's extraordinary, you have to tell me everything!” Exclaims Merrill happily

“How come I didn’t know?” asked Zore, a bit offended but mostly curious.

“It’s not something we publicized, it would cause panic” Nuria explained apologetically

Sheranna, however, crossed her arms and frowned. "It's unnatural. The Chantry says these things are best left forgotten."

Right on cue.

Merrill's smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. "It's alright, Sheranna. I understand. But I believe there's value in our history, in understanding where we come from."

After a few more minutes of admiring the Eluvian, leaving their bags and Nuria's promises of telling her everything, Merrill led them outside. "Let me show you around the Alienage. You'll meet some of the people here—they're good folk, just trying to get by."

The narrow streets were bustling with activity. As they walked, Merrill pointed out various landmarks and introduced them to some of the residents. They stopped by a small workshop where a man was working leather

"This is Arven," Merrill said. "He's been living here for about a few months."

Arven was in his mid-thirties, clearly someone that took care of his body, well built, and with a lingering scent of soap around him. He had long hair of a deep auburn, going down to his jaw, buzz cut on one side and a few small braids on the other. He was handsome, with a strong jaw and striking features, and had the air of someone that knows exactly how good looking they are.

He looked up from his work and grinned "Ah, new faces! Welcome to the Alienage. I'm sure Merrill's already told you all about me."

Nuria smiled politely. "Nice to meet you, Arven."

He winked at Zore, his grin turning roguish. "And who might you be, beautiful? I'm sure I could show you around personally."

Zore was beautiful. She was slender, tall, and graceful in a way only rogues managed, with blonde long hair and blue eyes. She was striking, eagle-like eyes, round small lips, like a doll’s.

Zore laughed, shaking her head. "No thank you, but thanks for the offer."

Merrill cleared her throat, clearly a bit uncomfortable. "Arven, please. These are my friends."

He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright. Just being friendly."

As they moved on, Merrill sighed. "Arven means well, but he's... a bit of a handful."

Merrill just sighed when Arven was far enough. They continued their tour and soon came across a young girl, barely fifteen and evidently pregnant, standing outside a small home with a younger girl of around six. A boy, no older than fifteen himself, was hammering away at a piece of metal nearby.

"This is Lyna," Merrill said softly. "And her sister, Ava. That's her husband, Taran."

Lyna gave them a shy smile. "Hello."

Nuria felt a pang of sympathy. She wasn't fully grown and her small frame made her worry. As a First, she had delivered babies, and it wouldn't be easy for Lyna, she already knew by looking at her. "It's nice to meet you, Lyna. How are you doing?"

Lyna shrugged, her eyes tired. "We're good. Welcome to the Alienage, it's good to see new faces"

Taran paused his work and came over, wiping his hands on his tunic. 

"We're doing our best. Taran is amazing" she added with a small smile to the now blushing boy

Nuria nodded, admiring their resilience. "If there's anything we can do to help, just let us know."

Ava, the younger sister, eyed Nuria with a mix of curiosity and caution. But as Nuria knelt down to speak to her, the little girl's expression softened.

"Hi, Ava. I'm Nuria. How are you?"

Ava's guarded demeanor melted a bit. "I'm okay. What is your job? My sister has a job. She’s a servant for Lord Valentine. They’re very reach, but we are poor"

“Ava!” chastised Lyna, embarrassed. Nuria chuckled, and shook her head as to say that it was no disturbance, that it was ok.

Nuria smiled gently, and replied to the girl’s question. "I'm a servant, traveling from far away, here to help my friends."

Aria's eyes lit up with excitement, and she nodded eagerly. "That's cool. How many places have you seen? I’ve never left Kirkwall" The enthusiasm of the little girl is sweet and charming. 

They stopped a while, talking to the young family. Taran was an apprentice, a smith. A human took him under his wing, an honor for the elves in the alienage. They might have been poor, as Ava said, but there was love there. Lyna had swollen feet and a sore back, normal symptoms for a pregnancy. Nuria had learned various non magical remedies for such ails, couldn’t help herself and asked “I know how to work with herbs, I can make something for your back and feet, is going to give some relief”

The teenager smiles gently “I don’t have money” she replied a bit embarrassed 

“Don’t worry about that, take it as a gift to earn the friendship of our new neighbors” Lyna hesitated, then nodded, accepting the gift, if with some reserve.

After spending some more time with the young family, getting to know them better, the women decided to head to the local tavern. While they headed there Merril explains their story

"They've been through so much," Merrill began softly, her voice tinged with sadness. "Their parents were either kidnapped or... already gone. Now it’s just the three of them. They only have each other to lean on." 

She also warned them about Arvan.
"He’s the local Lothario. He’s slept with half the Alienage, and he’s working on the other half."

Zore, ever quick with a quip, seized the opportunity with a mischievous grin. "And which half do you belong to, Merrill?"

Merrill’s cheeks flushed a deep red, and fumbled something unintelligible. The group erupted into laughter, the tension easing as they teased her good-naturedly.

“I had just arrived,” Merrill explained, her voice a mix of embarrassment and regret. “I didn’t know about him back then. He seemed so committed…”

She was as red as a tomato, and Zore quickly stepped closer, her teasing smile softening into one of genuine concern. "Hey, I didn’t mean to make you upset, Merrill. I’m sorry. Sometimes I just tease a bit too much."

Nuria, who had been quietly following along, smiled. She had been on the receiving end of Zore’s sharp tongue as well, enduring more than her fair share of egg jokes about Solas.

-

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the Alienage, the small group of women made their way toward the humble tavern nestled in the heart of the alienage. With the kidnappings elves were even less welcome than usual outside of the Alienage, so one of the young men decided to make a place of his own. Usually the humans would have been more than happy to tear it down, but with the situation, they were eager to let elves do their own thing.

 The warm glow from within the building contrasted sharply with the rough, dim streets outside. The sign above the door was simple, but it bore the mark of elven craftsmanship—a reminder of the pride the community held in their small victories.

Inside, the tavern was modest but cozy, with wooden tables and chairs that had seen better days. The smell of stew and ale hung in the air, mingling with the quiet conversations of the patrons. The atmosphere was subdued, a reflection of the tension that had gripped the Alienage ever since the kidnappings had started. It was clear that this place had become a refuge for the elves, a sanctuary where they could gather away from the suspicious eyes of Lowtown.

Merrill led the group to a small table near the corner, her eyes scanning the room with a mixture of familiarity and caution. Nuria, Sheranna, and Zore followed, their disguises as commoners blending them seamlessly with the crowd. 

The tavern's owner was surprisingly young, barely old enough to drink himself. As the newcomers settled at one of the small tables, they couldn't help but notice the young man engaged in conversation with someone slightly older. The resemblance between them was clear, from their striking features to the way they carried themselves. Both were undeniably attractive and fully aware of it, their confidence evident in the way they dressed—clothes a bit more refined than what was typical in the Alienage, and just revealing enough to hint at their self-assurance without crossing into the inappropriate.

The young man had short, reddish hair that complemented his tan skin and piercing gray eyes, while the woman shared those same captivating eyes, but her hair was a cascade of soft blond curls, and her skin was lighter. There was a sadness in her expression, though, that contrasted sharply with his attempt to lift her spirits.

Despite their polished appearance, it was clear that something weighed heavily on the woman’s mind. As the young man spoke to her, his tone gentle and encouraging, it was obvious that he was doing his best to bring a smile to her face, to ease whatever burden she was carrying.

Merrill’s eyes softened with recognition as she watched the pair. She leaned in closer to the others and whispered, "That’s Talia. And the young man—her cousin. Talia’s sister was taken two days ago. It’s been hard on her."

The others exchanged glances, absorbing the information. Nuria, Sheranna and Zore looked concerned. Before they could speak, the conversation at the bar ended, and Talia turned to leave. As she did, her gaze swept over the room and landed on Merrill. Her sad eyes brightened with a flicker of recognition, and she made her way over to their table.

“Hey Merrill,” Talia greeted, her voice tinged with warmth but weighed down by grief. She managed a small smile as she approached, but it didn’t reach the eyes.

“Hey” Merrill replied softly, standing up to hug her. “I heard about your sister. I’m so sorry, Talia.”

Talia nodded, her smile faltering as she accepted the hug. “Thank you, Merrill. It’s been… difficult.”

As Talia pulled back from the embrace, her eyes flicked over to the other women at the table. Nuria, Sheranna, and Zore all offered polite nods, but Talia’s gaze lingered on Nuria a moment longer. There was something in the way Talia looked at her—a subtle narrowing of the eyes, a slight pursing of the lips—that suggested a quiet disapproval.

“These are some friends of mine,” Merrill introduced quickly, sensing the tension. “Nuria, Sheranna, and Zore. They’ve recently come to the city, working as servants. I was showing them around.”

Talia nodded slowly, though her expression didn’t soften. “It’s good to meet you all. I hope the city is treating you kindly, though I imagine it’s quite a change from the countryside.”

Nuria smiled sweetly, keeping her voice light. “Yes, it’s been an adjustment, but we’re happy. The city has its charms.”

Talia didn’t seem convinced, but she let it pass. She turned her attention back to Merrill. “I’m only here to check on my cousin, make sure he’s holding up. He insisted on staying open, even with everything that’s been happening.”

Merrill nodded sympathetically. “It’s good of him to keep this place running. The Alienage needs somewhere like this, especially now.”

Talia sighed, glancing back at the bar where her cousin was cleaning glasses, his movements precise and methodical. “Yes, it does. I just hope… I just hope something changes soon. I don’t know how much more we can take.”

There was a brief, uncomfortable silence. Nuria, aware of Talia’s lingering gaze on her, chose her words carefully. “We’re new here, but if there’s anything we can do to help, just let us know.”

Talia’s expression hardened slightly, her tone polite but distant. “Thank you, but we’ve managed so far. We’re used to taking care of our own. We don’t need know-it-all newcomers” 

Nuria’s smile didn’t falter, but the sting of Talia’s words hit her mark. Sheranna and Zore exchanged a quick glance, surprised by the display. Merrill, ever the peacemaker, shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearly caught between her loyalty to her friends and the unspoken rules of the Alienage. 

“We didn’t mean to overstep,” Sheranna said gently, her voice calm and soothing. “We’re just trying to find our place here, like everyone else.”

Talia looked Nuria up and down, and said to Sheranna “Then do keep your baby faced know-it-all in check”

“I didn’t mean to offend, I apologize” Nuria tried to offer, but Talia seemed bent on disliking her. 

She gave a short nod and then turned her attention back to Merrill. “I should let you get back to your evening. I just wanted to make sure my cousin was alright. We’ll manage, as we always do.”

Merrill nodded, though she looked visibly unsettled. “Thank you for stopping by, Talia. I hope things improve soon.”

As Talia moved to leave, her cousin glanced up from behind the bar, offering her a concerned look. Talia gave him a reassuring smile before heading for the door, her movements brisk.

As Talia departed, leaving behind a palpable shift in the atmosphere, Sheranna let out a slow, relieved breath. “Well, that was… intense.”

Zore’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Looks like we’ve already made an impression. Who knew our sweet Ilia could actually ruffle some feathers?”

Merrill, still visibly unsettled, offered a sheepish smile. “I’m sorry about that. Talia can be a bit… protective of the Alienage and wary of outsiders. It’s not really about you personally.”

Zore leaned in with a teasing glint in her eye. “It seemed personal to me. So, Ilia, you’ve met your match, huh? Who knew there was someone in Thedas who wouldn’t be won over by your innocent little face?”

Nuria laughed, her cheeks flushing slightly with embarrassment. “Well, maybe I’ll need to brush up on my charm techniques.”

Zore’s grin widened, clearly enjoying the playful exchange. “You know, we could always bring in Kael in” Kael was the name Solas would use in that mission.

“Who is that?” Merrill asked

“Our Fade expert and Ilia's former…romantic interest”

Nuria raised an eyebrow, alarmed and embarassed. “And how would that help?”

Zore chuckled, leaning back in her chair. “Well, if Talia can’t see how charming you are for herself, maybe Kael can spell it out for her. Unless, of course, Talia manages to charm him first. Then she would be too busy to care about you. That would be an interesting twist. You win either way”

Nuria’s smile faltered, her eyes momentarily clouding with hurt. She tried to mask it with a light laugh, but Zore’s, noticing the shift in Nuria's demeanor, evaporated immediately. Everyone noticed the shift, even as Nuria tried to change the topic for something lighter. 

After a while Zore stood up, her expression shifting from mischievous to sincere. “Ilia, can we talk for a moment?”

Nuria glanced at her, a bit taken aback, but nodded. “Sure.”

Zore led Nuria to a quieter corner of the tavern, away from the laughter and conversation at their table. The dim lighting and hum of background noise created a more private space for their conversation.

“I’m really sorry,” Zore began, her tone earnest. “I didn’t realize you still had feelings for him. I was just trying to be light-hearted, but it seems I might’ve overstepped.”

Nuria’s eyes softened as she met Zore’s gaze. “It’s okay, really. I don’t talk about him much because...it’s complicated. I didn’t expect it to come up, and I didn’t handle it well.”

Zore stepped closer, her voice lowering. “I didn’t mean to bring up old wounds. I just thought it was all in the past, you know? I was trying to tease you, not hurt you.”

Nuria managed a small, grateful smille “Don’t worry too much about it. I'll just have to get over it, right?”

Zore reached out, placing a reassuring hand on Nuria’s shoulder. “If you ever need to talk about it—or anything else—I’m here for you. I really didn’t mean to make things harder.”

With a nod, they returned to their table, where Merrill and Sheranna were waiting. The atmosphere had calmed, and the two rejoined the group, the moment of private conversation helping to mend the earlier rift.

-

As the night progressed and the tavern continued to buzz with activity, Arven, with his easy charm and infectious smile, joined them, pulling up a chair with the confidence of someone who knew he was welcome.

"Ladies," he greeted with a nod, his gaze lingering a little longer on Zore. "Mind if I join you?"

Sheranna, still a bit wary of Arven, shrugged. More instead was ready to have fun, probably at his expense. "Why not? The more, the merrier."

Arven joined their table, his presence immediately noticeable. He was charming and funny, effortlessly weaving jokes and stories that had the women laughing. Despite his reputation, he was undeniably good at his job and had a knack for making stories and leather working alike. 

Zore seemed to catch Arven's eye more than the others, and his flirtatious remarks were often directed at her. She met his advances with a mix of amusement and dismissal, her laughter ringing through the tavern.

But having two elven Dalish First sitting together for hours without talking about a broken Eluvian in the house was impossible, and so, at some point, Merrill and Nuria crafted an excuse and stepped outside. They found a quiet corner, away from the bustling crowd, and began to talk in hushed tones.

"I'm so glad to have another Dalish mage to talk to," Merrill said, her voice filled with genuine happiness. "It's been so long since I've had someone who understands our magic and our history."

Nuria nodded, feeling a sense of kinship with Merrill. "I feel the same way. Your Eluvian is incredible. Do you know what Eluvians were used for?" She asked conspiratorially.

Merrill leaned in closer, her voice lowering, matching the Inquisito’s tone. "They were used as a means of transportation and communication between the elven cities. Imagine what we could learn from it, the places it could lead us to."

Nuria nodded, her mind racing with possibilities. "In the Inquisition, we discovered that Eluvians might also hold knowledge and memories. They could be more than just portals; they could be repositories of our people's history and magic."

Merrill's eyes widened in excitement. "That's amazing! If we could unlock mine, it would be invaluable. Our people have lost so much, and the Chantry has suppressed so much of our history. This could change everything."

Nuria smiled, feeling a renewed sense of purpose. "Yes, it could. And maybe, together, we can unlock it."

They continued their conversation, and talking about the work Merrill had done to repair the Eluvian, she avoided to mention which magic she had used. Merrill hesitated for a moment before saying it, her gaze steady. “There’s something I should tell you. I’m a blood mage.”

Nuria’s expression remained calm, her eyes reflecting a thoughtful curiosity rather than shock or judgment. “ I’ve been curious about it, but I never met a Blood Mage”

Merrill blinked, clearly expecting a stronger reaction. “You’re not... upset?”

Nuria shook her head, her tone even. “No. What matters is how we use our magic. I’ve been taught that Blood Magic is a powerful instrument, as long as it doesn’t become a clutch and is done amongst consenting adults there’s nothing wrong with it”

Merrill’s relief was palpable, but she was still cautious. “Thank you for being so understanding. I’ve had to deal with a lot because of it.”

Nuria nodded, her expression softening. “I know what you mean. We all have our struggles.”

Merrill seemed to relax, but her curiosity was now piqued. “And you? Are you specialized in anything?”

Nuria took a deep breath, preparing to reveal a significant part of herself. “I’m a Dreamer.”

Merrill’s eyes widened, her reaction a mix of awe and surprise. “A Dreamer? That’s incredible! I never thought I’d meet one.”

Nuria nodded, a slight, nervous smile playing on her lips. “Yes, it’s a rare gift. It helped me expand my understanding of the world in ways I would never have imagined.”

Merrill’s excitement grew, her voice eager. “That’s amazing! The connection to the Fade, the ability to explore dreams... It’s like having a window into another world. I’ve read about Dreamers, but to hear it from someone who lives it...”

Nuria’s eyes twinkled with shared enthusiasm. “It’s a powerful and sometimes overwhelming gift. It’s not without its risks, but it’s also a way to preserve and understand our people’s history and magic. Most people can gain a bit of ability in the Fade with training”

Merrill’s admiration was evident. “Could you teach me?”

Nuria placed a strand of hair behind her ear “I’m not sure, I’ve been told that blood magic makes accessing the fade more difficult. I think you should ask Kael when he arrives. He’s the one that taught me everything I know about the Fade. He could also help with the Eluvian."

Merrill’s expression brightened with interest. "Varric told me about him. A powerful mage, from what he told me. But Varric also said that he’s a complicated man. Do you think he would help us?"

Nuria's eyes softened at the mention of Solas. "I believe he would. He's deeply knowledgable in our people's history and understanding the Fade. He’s shared so much knowledge with me, and I know he would be invaluable in unlocking your Eluvian. He’s away on a mission right now, but he should be able to join us later."

Merrill beamed. "That would be wonderful! With his expertise, we might finally unlock the full potential of the Eluvian."

The excitement in Merrill’s eyes mirrored Nuria’s own feelings. They were on the brink of a discovery that could reshape their understanding of elven history and magic. For the first time in a long while, Nuria felt she could do something big for her people’s history that didn't involve sentinels that didn't even think of her as Elvhen.

Looking around them, Merrill, Nuria and More were taller and looked healthier compared to the other City Elves. They were raised in a community of peers that shared everything and fought for everyone to have their needs meet, and it showed. Many City Elves lived off the scraps of the humans. But she still thought of them as people, unlike Abelas. But she would not tell Merrill.

They continued their conversation, exchanging knowledge and theories about the Eluvians and their potential. It felt good to share her insights with someone who truly understood and appreciated the significance of their heritage. They had to interrupt, not wanting to isolate themselves from the others,but promised to resume soon.

Meanwhile, back at the table, Arven's charm was on full display. He leaned back, a playful grin on his face as he recounted another of his tales. "And so, there I was, surrounded by a dozen bandits, all of them twice my size. But you know what they say about the bigger they are..."

Zore laughed, shaking her head. "The harder they fall. I've heard that one before, Arven."

Arven winked at her. "Ah, but have you heard it from someone who made it out with nothing but a scratch and a new pair of boots?"

“Quite the tall tale for a simple leather worker” said Sheranna. While amused, she remained vigilant. She knew better than to fully trust anyone in their current situation. Still, Arven's stories provided a much-needed distraction from the tension of their mission.

Merrill and Nuria returned to the table, their bond stronger and their minds buzzing with new ideas. The night wore on, and as the tavern began to empty, the women prepared to head back to Merrill’s home.las they stepped outside into the cool night air, Nuria felt a sense of hope. Maybe, just maybe, they could uncover the secrets of the Eluvians and their lost heritage. She looked out a window, to the darkness, where the harsh environment outside of the city greeted her with wary lines and moonlit shapes. Solas was out there, somewhere. She wondered what he was doing, if he despised her for sending him into the wild while she was in a comfortable tavern.

SOLAS

The night sky above the outskirts of Kirkwall was a cloak of darkness, barely pierced by the cold light of the moon. The barren hills and rocky precipices leading down to the sea were silent except for the occasional roar of the waves crashing against the cliffs. Solas looked at the city for a moment, wondering if Nuria had reached it, and what was she doing right now. He chased away the thought and turned to his loyal band of soldiers, focusing once again on the mission.

They were traveling towards one of the locations Leliana mentioned, but as they walked they heard shouting, and saw in the distance a ritual starting to take place. They immediately set out for battle. As they approached the ritual site, Solas could see the darkspawn mages, their faces twisted. The ritual, a grotesque and blasphemous display of dark magic, was in full swing. The air was thick with the stench of corruption and the pulsing power of the spell. The darkspawn had purple eyes.

“Prepare yourselves!” Solas ordered as he drew upon his power. The soldiers moved with practiced precision, their weapons ready.

The battle was swift and brutal. The darkspawn mages, caught off guard, fell quickly under the combined assault of Solas’s magic and the soldiers' combat skills. Lightning crackled and fire roared, cutting through the darkspawn ranks with lethal efficiency. Solas, now that he gathered two shards of his former power, was capable of doing things beyond any normal mage, and had to keep it reined in. The staff wasn’t as helpful as before, but he still used it to avoid being discovered. Even though he was among non-mages they would find suspicious if he started casting without using anything all of a sudden. He fought with a cold precision, his control over the arcane making the darkspawn seem like mere playthings.

When the last darkspawn fell, Solas turned his attention to the scene before him. The ritual site was strewn with the remnants of dark magic—twisted glyphs and arcane symbols connected to Elgar’nan, once more. Back when Nuria found a similar ritual near Skyhold, they hadn’t found Darkspawn, only cultists. Those completely clean shaven cultists were among the victims of the ritual, and they were missing all hair, including eyebrows, just like Dorian wrote in his notes. Among the carnage, there was a single survivor: an elven woman, rocking herself back and forth, her eyes glazed over with trauma. She had soft blonde curls and eyes so dark they seemed pools of black. She was covered with blood and grime, and was mostly unharmed.

He left the soldiers to secure the area and tend to any remaining threats. With a gentleness that contrasted sharply with his earlier brutal approach to battle, Solas approached the woman. His presence was calm, almost serene. He extended a hand, offering her comfort.

“You’re safe now. Can you talk? Do you remember who you are?” Solas asked softly as he kneeled by her. That was what Nuria would have done. It was excessive for him, but maybe he just missed her. The woman looked up, her eyes filled with a mixture of fear and hope.

“I’m Laria, I was taken from the Alienage in Kirkwall,” she said, her voice trembling. “I was on my way home after work. Then there was a flash of magic, and I…Don't know. When I woke, I was here... and they were…were-”

Solas nodded, his expression thoughtful. “We will get you back home. You have nothing to fear now.”

“Thank you,” the woman replied, her voice a whisper of relief. She started crying.

As the night approached the group made camp, Solas ensuring the survivor that she would be protected and escorted back to Kirkwall. Once the camp was settled Solas went back to the ritual site to take notes. When he finished studying the place, he lingered, his mind racing over what he had discovered.

The glyphs in the ritual had been inspired by Elgar’nan. The implications of this were unsettling. If Elgar'nan, even a fragment of him, had managed to escape his prison and seeped into this world…he had to find out more

-

Later that night, after hearing from his agents in the Fade and verifying that the woman's memory had been scrubbed, the other traumatic memories too fresh to be of any use, Solas found himself seeking out Cullen. He needed the templar to send someone to fetch the woman, and he had been warned that he could come to his dreams if needed. The blonde didn't dare to say no, but Solas knew that it wouldn't be easy. 

When he reached his dreamscape, Cullen was dreaming of Nuria. They were walking hand in hand in a garden, chuckling about something. She was radiant, as beautiful as she's ever been, and looked at him with love. Solas froze. Was it a memory or his wishes? He could investigate. Did she forget about him? Had she moved on, while he struggled still?

Solas noted painfully that they looked like a dashing couple together. The kind of couple nations would worship. He waved the dream away, and he materialized before Cullen, his form taking shape in the swirling mist of the realm. Cullen, however, was on edge, his hand on his weapon as he regarded Solas with suspicion.

“Stay back!” Cullen demanded, his voice strained. “What are you?”

“I’m Solas, we told you I could come with messages” said he calmly, but Cullen was unconvinced 

“Stay back demon, what have you done with Nuria?” 

Solas sighed “I am no demon, Cullen, I'm just here to tell you that we have one of the kidnapped elves from the Kirkwall alienage, you have to send a unit to retrieve her” Solas said, his tone calm. 

Cullen’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his weapon. “I don’t know what you are, but I will not listen to your commands. By the grace of Andraste, I chase you away, demon!”

Solas nodded, giving up. “Very well. I will send a message to the Inquisitor. Goodbye.”

With that, Solas withdrew, the Fade shimmering as he sent a message to the Inquisitor, detailing the findings and the potential dangers. His heart ached with the knowledge that Nuria could be with Cullen now. Was he sleeping wrapped around her like he used to? Was she nuzzling his hand in sleep when he moved? Was he stroking her cheek softly, chasing a strand of hair away from her beautiful eyes?

The jealousy made his thoughts scramble, his tone irritated instead of calm as he relayed his message. He could have gone to her directly, he wanted to see if she dreamed of similar things. But he couldn't, he had to keep his distance, keep her safe, happy without his demons weighing on her.

“You tell yourself that distance is better, that each of your actions is borne of necessity, but you are choosing.” He turns, a spirit of Wisdom looking at him steadily, the form of a massive owl as tall as him

“Acting is a choice you make for each step you take.”

“You walk a path with eyes fixed only on your goal, Pride Wolf, ignoring those you tread upon to reach it. Tell me, have you abandoned the Wisdom you once embodied? Have you forgotten that true Knowledge is ever-changing, shaped by new understanding and voices beyond your own? To seek Wisdom is to welcome the choices of others, as you would wish your own to be honored.”

Solas waved the spirit away. He didn't need that right now. He knew what he had to do. That it pained him was of no consequence. He could at least spare her some pain.

Chapter Text

That first night in the Alienage, as Nuria lay down to rest, a cold dread settled in her chest. She was afraid. For the first time since she began exploring the Fade with Solas, she was scared of the Fade. The energy of the Fade in the waking world was already suffocating to the point of making her physically sick. But the Fade, her refuge and sanctuary, now mirrored the bleakness of reality in a way that shook her to her core.

When she finally closed her eyes and crossed the threshold into the dream realm, the Fade was overrun with twisted manifestations of Desperation, Hunger, Rage, and Despair, their forms shifting and roiling like a storm barely contained. The air itself felt heavy, thick with the weight of countless unspoken fears and unmet needs, each spirit a reflection of the suffering endured by the people in the Alienage. Spirits of Loss were flying in groups over her, feeding of the same air. It was heart wrenching.

She had always found a strange kind of peace in the Fade, a place where she could explore the mysteries of magic and the mind. But tonight, the Fade offered no solace, turned into a battleground for the raw, unfiltered emotions that plagued the elves of Kirkwall. Nuria felt a shiver run through her. She took a deep breath. The Fade reflects what we expect. Since she expected doom, this is what it’s reflecting. But it doesn’t need to be this way. 

“He's never coming back, life makes no sense without him” whispered Desperation into her ear.

“I want. I want . I want . I need . I CRAVE ” murmured Hunger not far from her, feeding from a memory

“Burn them all, burn all the Shems” growled Rage, stomping around, reveling in the hate that simmered in many memories of elves mistreated.

The more she walked the narrow alleys, the more of them she saw. It was rare to see spirits of Resilience, or any positive spirit at all. That filled Nuria with sadness. How hard were their lives, for so little of what's good in the world to be reflected in the Fade? How did any Dalish ever dismiss the City Elves’ suffering? She felt ashamed. She once had been among the arrogant crowd that thought themselves better, the City Elves weak.

As she walked through the Fade, she saw time and time again memories of short, hard lives lived in misery. The tales she had overheard through the years echoed in her mind. Mothers losing their unborn children to malnutrition, the alienage beinga place to haze young nobles, that would do the unspeakable and walk free the next day. Merchants who would steal credit from a crafty elf, only to get money and prestige with work that wasn’t his.

She walked slowly, taking the surroundings in, all the light and the darkness of the place she would live in for a time. She felt the weight of it all. But as she reached the main square, the Vhenadahl stood there, as a beacon of light. The strongest spirit of Resilience she had ever seen inhabited and took the form of the Vhenadahl. It was bright, unmoving and strong. A respectful hahren, protecting its children under its indomitable light. It was the will personified of a people that will never give up. She was taught that City Elves were ‘flat ears’, people that chose slavery, an easier life but under shem control. In the Fade, however, those misconceptions melted in front of the reality of what being a city elf really meant: being the last of the last in society, but never, ever giving up.

She came closer to the spirit of Resilience, in awe of its power and beauty, and respectfully asked

“Hail you Endurance, protector of this community, I’m Nuria. May I approach? May I call you by name?” she asked. A face formed in the trunk of the tree, made of lines and knots. It was unmistakably an elf, with sharp ears and sharper eyes. The spirit observed her for a while, and she felt its unwavering energy coming into her own, analyzing her, before replying with a single word

“Grit”

She smiled. She asked the spirit to tell her about the people of the alienage and the spirits that inhabited it, and how to help them. Surprised by her, Grit was more than happy to offer help and suggestions. It didn’t talk though, but just offered images of people and the struggles they were enduring. It was something akin to what Cole did but strikingly different in its own way. 

That night Nuria wanted to start working immediately on the kidnappings, maybe even try and find clues about Hawke, but making life just a bit easier for those that live in the alienage became a new mission for her. When she said goodbye to Grit, the last question she asked was

“Where should I start looking if I were to investigate the kidnappings?”

Grit illuminated a few houses in the alienage and said

“There”

Thanking the spirit, Nuria started to crawl around the narrow alleys of the alienage to reach her first destination. That’s when Solas message arrived. It was a continuation of their musings on her recent discoveries, and one of his own: he found a red lyrium mine outside Kirkwall, where Marcellus extracted lyrium to then refine, turn into a consumable, probably a drug, and sell it onto the market. He says the least he can, as always, but she loves hearing his voice nonetheless. She sighs. All her defiance and big talk about distance, and hearing his voice naturally reporting news is enough to make her long for him. Why does she have to love the sound of his voice? It’s calming her nerves, even if he’s not here, even if he doesn’t feel her struggle. Stupid lovestruck girl.

“Go to him, he's yours, even now. He can't wait to take you and make you see stars like none else ever could” Desire sneaked up to her, quoting Dorian.

“No” she replies, waving the spirit away, but blushing all the same.

She takes deep breaths, calms down and responds with the same calm and collected tone, telling him that she would keep an eye out for anything related to Elgar’nan, that has reached Kirkwall and she’s investigating the Alienage, the situation with the Veil and the Fade there, warning him, and asking for advice on how to lessen the physical burden.

Once that is done, she resumes her walk. She didn’t want to use her abilities to bend the Fade to get there. She wanted to know that place better, and learning her way around was a great way to. As she went down the corridors and spirits of Despair flew around her Curiosity showed up. Today it was a gorilla with bee legs, eyes and wings. The eyes were a glowing yellow while the rest of the creature was a vivid red. That was one weird combination, even for Curiosity. A bit unsettling too, but the creature was so happy she couldn't dare say anything.

“So many things to discover!” it said

“True” agreed Nuria “But stay close”

No spirit had been outright aggressive so far, but things could change quickly. And they did.

As Nuria approached the home that gleamed most brightly under Grit’s light, a Spirit of Loss lunged at her with the force of a desperate wind. Nuria reacted instinctively, raising a barrier that sent the spirit recoiling. It tried again, with the same result, bouncing off the barrier like a moth against glass.

"I'm not your enemy," Nuria said softly, her voice carrying a note of calm authority. "And you cannot possess me." The spirit hovered uncertainly, its form flickering with a sense of frustration and confusion. "What is it that you have lost?"

The spirit lunged once more, but this time, the effort was weaker, almost resigned. It bounced back, then tried again, each attempt more feeble than the last, until it finally accepted that it could not break through. Nuria felt a familiar presence beside her, a comforting, protective aura. She didn’t need to turn to know it was Mystery.

“I'm safe, don’t worry,” she whispered, reassuring Mystery with a smile “You could show up though” Mystery recoiled further back the periphery of her conscience. Or maybe not.

The Spirit of Loss skittered away, retreating to the memory it was feeding from. The memory was cloudy, obscured as though seen through frosted glass, but different from the others she had encountered—those usually sealed off completely, barred from her by forces she suspected were not entirely of the Fade. Despite the haze, Nuria could feel something beneath the surface, an undercurrent of emotions and voices. She focused, listening carefully, catching snippets of a commotion, urgent pleas, and then the sharp crackle of magic. The memory ended abruptly, leaving her with more questions than answers. She sighed, frustration gnawing at her.

She had long harbored the suspicion that Solas was behind these blocked memories, but perhaps it was time to confront him, or at least try to reach out and see if he would respond. She set off to do just that, determined to at least make the effort.

“What do the Creators have to do with his secret? What is he hiding?” Curiosity piped up beside her, its tone as cheerful as ever, despite the solemn surroundings. Nuria didn’t bother replying; the spirit had asked this same question countless times before, and her answer had always been the same. There was no point in repeating it yet again. Better to focus on the task at hand.

The memory she had just touched was fresh, no more than a few days old. As she delved deeper, she uncovered more memories within the home, piecing together fragments of Talia and Elya’s lives. The most recent memory was vivid, almost painfully so—Talia discovering her sister's disappearance, her anguish raw and unfiltered. The spirit of Loss had latched onto this moment, feeding off the overwhelming grief. Despite Talia’s immediate hostility toward her, Nuria couldn’t help but feel a pang of empathy. Watching the woman kneel and cry out in despair was a sight that tugged at her own fears. Her brother was so far away, so out of reach now, and yet, if she lost him…she took a sharp breath

Nuria left the home and nearly stumbled upon a Spirit of Despair, its presence heavy and palpable. Unlike Loss, Despair did not attack. It simply hovered, a dark cloud of sorrow wrapped around her shoulders.

“I'm so sorry,” Nuria said, her voice thick with genuine concern. “Did I hurt you?”

“It hurts,” the spirit whispered, its voice a hollow echo of anguish. 

It coiled around her more tightly, the weight of its despair pressing down on her like a suffocating blanket. She felt the depth of its sorrow—the loss of a love so profound that it had left the spirit in a perpetual state of grief. She understood the spirit’s pain. Nuria gently began to stroke the spirit, offering what comfort she could, and felt it slowly start to settle, its edges softening under her touch. It didn’t want to attack her, it just wanted relief.

She recalled something Solas had once told her about spirits of ‘negative’ emotions—that with the right kind of care, they could be transformed into something else, or perhaps return to their original forms, if they were something else in the beginning. Nuria kept this in mind as she continued to soothe the spirit, 

“There are other things to love, people that love in other ways. Friends, family. It doesn’t all have to be suffering for one person”

“Friends and family don’t stop your Despair” the spirit chastizes

“With time it will.” She’s not convinced of it herself, and the spirit senses it and burrows deeper in her shoulder. As she made her way to the second location, she tried to shield herself from the overwhelming sadness that seeped through, and still maintain her focus on the kidnappings.

When she reached the next house, the memory she found there was a bit older but just as hazy as the previous one. The voices of the kidnapped echoed through her mind, a man and a woman this time. A couple? The other memories confirmed it. They were an older couple with a daughter, but most of the memories there told a tale of love that is stronger than hardships. It made her smile, and then her smile dropped. Their daughter is Lyna. Those were her parents, and they were probably dead by now. 

In a memory she recognized the pregnant girl, weeping and apologizing to her parents for her situation. The sight of the family huddled together in their grief was touching, almost painfully so. There was a spirit there. It glowed faintly, pink and sweet. It was a labrador, happily waggling its tail when it saw Nuria. She sighed. Spirits of Love were attracted by her feelings for Solas.

“Safe in the clan, the farther he is from me the safer he is”

Nuria turned in the spirit’s direction. It was coming closer. It wasn’t talking about Solas, but Varian. She knelt

“He is”

“When I die he won’t have to watch” Nuria was taken aback for a moment, but nodded with a smile

“Exactly”

“How soon will the Anchor kill you?” Asks Curiosity cheerfully. She has been wondering that for a while. It’s been reacting more often and more intensely than ever before. Sometimes it hurts even if it’s not doing anything. And the more she trains in the Fade, the more clearly she can feel it gnawing at her body.

She was terrified. She swallowed and didn’t reply. She didn’t know. Push it in. Push it down. Hopefully she would make it in time and kill Corypheus.

“He would want to see you before the end. He wants to hug you one last time. Just once. See that you’re still you”

She couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t. Never. Maybe he wouldn’t even recognize her. She took a deep breath.

“I’ll think about it” she promises the dog, petting it. It wasn’t a spirit of romantic Love.

“What’s your name?” Nuria decided to change the topic.

“Family” a little oh forms on her lips. Of course.

She wasn't about to deny one of the few positive Spirits of the Alienage its nature. The spirit showed a strong thread of love connecting her to somewhere else in the Fade. She could have followed it and she would have found Varian, she knew. She could have just followed. She wanted to see him. She missed him, she wanted to talk endlessly with him about all the normal things of clan life, about him, his thoughts, his friends. 

“You could just slap him, only once” whispered Rage “Let him know he shouldn't have dared”

She just didn't follow it. She didn’t listen to Rage. She just woke up.

It was a bit before dawn, the others were still asleep. She looked at the ceiling for a time, trying once more to suppress her feelings. Today’s her brother birthday. He turned 20. Maybe he got his Vallaslin today. Once she was gone, he would be alone, without a family. Deshanna was kind to them, had raised them, but she was the Keeper, and couldn’t show them favoritism. He would have none on his side. He deserved someone on his side.

She sat on the bed. She had to chase those thoughts away. 

She started going through the motions, putting her bed back together, then herself.

Her thoughts drifted from her anchor, that today was hurting already, to her brother, to Corypheus, to Solas. It had been more than a month already, and she still missed him, and she was still unable to make herself fall for Cullen. She dressed, and made her way to the other room, where the alchemy table was. She started preparing a lotion for the poor pregnant girl's feet, they were swollen already. The best thing she could do was help the people of the Alienage, not thinking. Push it in, push it down. It was useless to think about things she could never change. Better help, until she could.

-

When the others woke up, she was nearly done with a little bit of everything that the girl could need, each thing carefully labeled. Merrill looked at her surprised, her eyes still heavy with sleep. She rubbed them, and her whole face. It was an adorable habit of hers.

“When did you wake up exactly?” she ended the sentence with a yawn and a stretch.

Nuria chuckled, glad for some company other than her thoughts.

“Couldn't sleep one more minute” technically true. She smiled, her mask of warmth back in place.

“I'll clean up quickly” she reassures Merrill, starting to put away the herbs.

-

Once they're ready, they go to have breakfast under the Vhenadahl. There were stools, but the big roots were comfortable enough. After learning about Grit, she felt more comfortable there than anywhere else in Kirkwall. She touched the trunk with her hand gently, bidding Grit good morning, before focusing on the conversation. On the other side of the Veil, she could almost feel it. The group was approached by a few curious friends of Merrill, welcoming them to the alienage. 

Arvan came back with a vengeance, still trying to get into Zore’s graces. He was charming, funny, and seemed to know everything about everyone in the alienage.

Nuria listened while eating fruit, and stories of families separated by misfortune and kidnappings unraveled. They learned that the Hahren’s wife had been kidnapped, and his son disappeared when he started looking for her. He's been in a drunken stupor since then, and others stepped in to help him in his duties. Corinne refused to take the role of Hahren officially, saying that she was just helping the real hahren.

Ensi, once the favorite of a noble that promised to marry her, disgraced once he died and was left with nothing from his heirs.

Talia, the only remaining of her family, after her sister has been kidnapped and her parents died years ago due to a common illness that they didn't have the money to heal. Her sister had been abducted only days ago.

Stories upon stories of people succeeding and fleeing the alienage, people helping each other, people dying while still talking about their dreams that would never be.

Arvan knew more than Merrill about the Alienage, more than any keen eyed old lady in her clan, too.

While he was talking she had a first taste of what it meant to be a city elf too.

A human showed up, with the most obnoxious and punchable expression. Well clothed, an air of importance and money about him, flanked by 4 burly humans. He started asking

“Who is up to some work today? I need people in my chalk mine. I pay well and every day”

After some hesitation, people started inquiring about the job, until a middle aged man came out and said

“I worked for you for a week and you've still not paid me.”

“If you come again we'll see what I owe you”

The worker seethed, but stepped forward after a time.

“Well, he has a sick wife and debts. He can't turn away anything I guess” said Arvan

Nuria looked down at her finished breakfast, trying to mask her rage. She was aware that she couldn't afford to step in and make another mistake, but seeing that man walk away, shoulders slumped, for what probably was going to be his eight day without pay was disheartening. And the worst was yet to come.

After breakfast they were due to go to Lord Aldridge’s home in Kirkwall. Calling that massive estate a home was like comparing Skyhold and her old Aravel

The moment she saw whom she could only assume was Lady Aldridge berating a young elven servant about something or other, with the girl whimpering, distressed, in front of her, she knew the day would be challenging.  

That was just the beginning. After meeting Lord Aldridge, she immediately understood two things about him: he's dumb, and he's a racist prick. He was warned that three elven women would show up, and he was warned that one of them was the Inquisitor. He was also told that the Inquisitor would not reveal her identity. 

Despite that, he tried to trap her in the stupidest ways. Inviting the Inquisitor to sit in a specific chair, making allusions that a three year old would have seen through. 

He believes Zore is the Inquisitor because of her Vallaslin. Of course. He revealed that with a smug proud smile, like Dalish wearing Vallaslin was some sort of secret that he unconverted in virtue of his wits. He then praised the elves in the fakest, most exaggerated way she had ever heard anyone praising anything, and she had just one question: why did Varric help this man get a title? She must ask him in their next communication.

The shift in itself was grueling. All of the higher ranking servants were human, and all seemed to enjoy berating their stuff and calling them names a little too much. Elven servants were blamed for mistakes that happened when they were not even present, and generally, even as a ‘slow day’ it was awful.

She had never been called a rabbit that many times in a row.

-

She was attending a tea with the Aldridge family, a daily task that was easy enough. Serve the family tea, make sure their cups are never empty. Lord Aldridge, to his credit, wasn’t staring at her, and she was being blissfully ignored like the other servants. The family was discussing their many social engagements in the city, and they were all complimenting themselves on their little displays of intelligence-little, or dancing abilities-judgment pending, or beauty-she has seen much better, even among the servants. But apparently to them beauty is measured in the amounts of jewels and pearls one can amass on their figure, so it makes sense that they would view their needlessly opulent clothing as something impressive.

Lord Aldridge was name dropping half of the nobility of Kirkwall, surely to impress her in case she was actually the Inquisitor, and turned her to ask her if she could write a letter to him. Of course it was yet another one of his attempts at catching who the real Inquisitor was: he did receive a letter she had written of her own hand.

But before she could start on the task, Mr.Gallows offered to do it for him. Mr.Gallows was the head steward of the house, and so far he held the record for how many times anyone in her life called her rabbit. He subtly, but very clearly, pushed her back, and then offered candidly to show her where the writing supplies were located in the house.

Once out of earshot, it began

“You’re a rabbit, so I don’t expect you to understand the finesse of our Lord’s request”

Writing a letter to invite a Lord to hunt is indeed a hard task, unlike dismantling a coup in the Winter Palace. Of course. But she placed on her face a humble expression and nodded

“I don’t understand why our lord would ask you out of the all perfectly human servants available. Rabbits have awful handwriting, your fingers are too long to handle that. Or your brains too small as my Lord loves to say” he makes one of those obnoxious laughs that she would gladly correct with a punch, but her expression stays still. Humble servant.

He doesn’t even regard her as he says that, he just keeps walking and of course uses her as a mule to take all of the supplies to the tea room

-

Apparently Lord Aldridge had taken some elven servants other than Nuria, Sheranna and Zore lately, and they were the only elven servants in the main house. It was apparently a bad sign for human servants, because noble houses nowadays only hired human servants as a display of wealth and status. Having rabbits among them was a shame for servants, and they didn’t make a secret of it.

-

“Instead of standing idle like your kind loves to do,” said a servant that had been sitting leisurely and nibbling at pastries “Why don’t you go and pick up that serving plate right there” and that said she pointed a finger up at the tallest shelf of the cupboard, one she of course can reach, but the man sat near her could easily have access to

“Could I please have a ledge to reach it?” She asks evenly, with a polite smile, even though she knows perfectly what it’s going to happen next. The little group around the pastry eating servant sneakers and asks

“Elves can’t do even that without help, really? It’s my fault for expecting something out of a knife-ear”

Nuria takes a deep breath and makes a show of lowering her gaze.

“I guess having one of you named Herald of Andraste isn’t enough to make you lot useful, is it?”

-

The whole day is like that, a barrage that ends only when the shift ends. By the time Nuria started walking towards the Alienage with Zore and Sheranna, she asked Sheranna

“Is it always like this?” she’s incredulous. She had faced humans, but it was never this pervasive.

“Yes, it can be much worse than this” she answered evenly “Expect it to worsen”

“I…it’s hard to believe” Nuria looked at Zore, that seemed to be less surprised than her. But Sheranna was far from done.

“Do you know that the Hero of Ferelden is a City Elf from Denerim, right?” she asked

“I do”

“Do you know how she was conscripted to the Wardens?”

“I thought she volunteered”

“No, that’s just shems being ashamed of being exposed and trying to hide the truth. Well, it was her wedding day, and a local noble decided it would be a good idea to kidnap the bride and her entourage to be raped and killed at the whims of the nobles present for the party. She killed her way through the noble’s mansion, and shems were about to arrest her and execute her for the crime of not being willing to just endure it. This is how she got conscripted”

Nuria didn’t say anything, just reflecting on the events as they were told by Sheranna in an unusual bout of talkiness.

The history of those events was changed so much in just one decade. ‘What kind of hero will you be?’ Apparently, it wasn’t really up to her. Fear settled in. New Bride of the Maker. Herald. Those titles felt like shackles. How long until the Chantry decides that it's inconvenient for her to be an elf? Her early death will only make it easier.

They kept walking in silence until they reached the alienage. She never thought that being a City Elf could be so…much.

-

When they entered the tavern that night the atmosphere was grim. There was something in the air. In a table there was a group of men covered in chalk and with a defeated air about them. She recognized the man from this morning. She didn’t need to talk to them to understand that he hadn’t been paid. Probably none of them did.

FIlip, Talia’s cousin was at his counter cleaning mugs with excessive energy, and the talk in the tavern was the usual thing.

“We don’t have a chance, we never will”

“The shem will just push until we all die or are official slaves again. This is close enough as it is”

She couldn’t help but agree. What was their destiny? What was their goal? Be used and abused, find solace only in the community. A community that was beaten until there was nothing left. She witnessed the hell they were living, and it was just the first day.

-

The day after, in the early morning, she went to Lyna, Ava and Taven’s house. Nuria showed the supply and he gave her a wide smile in response, welcoming her in. Lyna and Ava were busy weaving baskets to sell, presumably, and when Lyna saw what she was bringing, she blushed and stood

“Wow, but…really there was no need, I can’t pay”

Nuria shook her head and just set the potions and ointments on the table of the modest home saying

“Really, it’s no problem at all, I had spares I made for a friend recently” she lied with a little shrug and a sincere smile

“I don’t need them, they would go to waste” Nuria added

Lyna seemed uncomfortable still, but Taven went to her and just said

“Thank you very much…Nuria, was it? We truly appreciate your help”

Nuria then stayed with the little family a little longer, chatting, laughing, providing advice for Lyna’s pregnancy issues and when she left the home, she felt better. Taven and Lyna acted like best friends, joking at each other expenses and laughing about it, and little Ava added her own charm to the family dynamic. Being immersed in normal people’s lives was refreshing. There was no talk of life threatening dangers, just Ava being cute and asking her to take a look at every single paper doll she owned, Taven massaging Lyna’s feet, Lyna recounting a tale of her noble mistress tripping on a cake during a party, an event that apparently inspired a famous play in Kirkwall. 

Making even a small difference in these people’s lives was important to her. That night she discovered that Lyna wasn’t even that far along, but her belly was so big that it worried her. She decided to talk to Merrill. When the time came for the birth, Lyna might need both of them to help. The local midwife had been kidnapped, and Nuria doubted that any human would come to the alienage to help given the kidnappings.

-

She went to the Vhenadahl for breakfast and found her group chatting with Arvan, who had brought a basket of fruits. He was chatting Zore up

“Good morning” Nuria said, as she joined the conversation. Apparently Arvan professed himself changed, and wanted to show Zore the depth of his affection by bringing her breakfast. 

Zore looked at Nuria amused, going back to Arvan “You know that Merrill told us about you Arvan? You won’t get into my pants, I assure you. I wouldn’t want to get lice” Zore was, as usual, very direct, but ate the fruit anyway, defiantly, in Arvan’s face.

"Ah, my dear Zore, you wound me! But I assure you, any rumors of lice are greatly exaggerated. Besides, I much prefer the thrill of the chase to the catch. Perhaps you will find that resisting me is far more dangerous than giving in?" Arvan maintained his lighthearted, roguish smile

Zore was stunned, and Nuria thought that it was impressive, managing to get back from a refusal like that with such ease 

“Not bad” admits Zore

“Do I win a kiss?” asks Arvan, getting closer

“No” said the rogue, turning away, but she blushed faintly.

Nuria looked at Merrill, who looked a bit uncomfortable with the situation, but gave her a reassuring smile. The conversation continued amicably, and a new routine was formed.

-

VARRIC

Varric sat at his usual table in the Hanged Man, a mug of ale in front of him, though he hadn’t taken more than a sip. The familiar comfort of the tavern wasn’t enough to shake the feeling that had been gnawing at him for days. He could feel the eyes on him—the subtle, lingering glances from the shadows, the presence that never strayed too far. Bran’s men were keeping tabs on him, and Varric knew it.

He leaned back in his chair, pretending to be absorbed in his writing, but his thoughts were elsewhere. If Bran was watching him this closely, it meant the Viscount was worried—or worse, suspicious. Varric tapped his quill on the edge of the parchment, considering his options. As he did so, a letter dropped on the table, carelessly thrown there by a young soldier, staring daggers at him.

“Champ, if you want help writing a love letter, you just have to ask” Varric gave the soldier his patented roguish smile, but it didn’t work. The soldier didn’t appreciate the humor, and just stood there, waiting for him to open the parchment. And so Varric did. Viscount Bran didn’t even try to be subtle. It wasn’t a threat, but it wasn’t a kind invitation either. What happened to Bran in all these years? Varric threw the missive back on the table

“I’m coming champ, you can relax” that said, Varric left coins on the table to pay for his drink and followed his new friend, Champ, to the Keep.

The grandeur of the Viscount’s Keep had always struck Varric as a bit much, but Kirkwall had never been a city for subtlety. The guards opened the heavy doors, allowing him into the hall where Viscount Bran awaited.

Bran stood by the window, looking out over the city that he ruled. He turned as Varric entered, his expression polite but unreadable.

“Varric Tethras,” Bran greeted, gesturing to a chair across from his desk. “It’s been some time since we last spoke.”

Varric took the offered seat, casually crossing one leg over the other. “It has. I was surprised to hear you wanted to see me, Bran. What can I do for you?”

Bran moved to sit behind his desk, folding his hands together as he studied Varric. “I’ve been hearing things, Varric. Rumors, whispers about your time with the Inquisition. It seems you’ve had quite the adventure.”

“Adventure might be one word for it,” Varric replied with a shrug. “But I’m back in Kirkwall now. I figured it was time to check in, see how the old place is holding up.”

Bran’s eyes narrowed slightly, though his tone remained civil. “You left Kirkwall under… unusual circumstances. Taken prisoner by the Inquisition, forced into their service. I can’t imagine that was an easy experience for you.”

Varric’s easy smile didn’t falter. “It wasn’t exactly a vacation, but I managed. The Inquisition’s got its own way of doing things, and let’s just say I’m glad to be free of it.”

The Viscount leaned back in his chair, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That’s precisely why I wanted to speak with you. I heard you weren’t exactly happy with your situation there. And yet, here you are—back in Kirkwall. I can’t help but wonder why.”

Varric spread his hands in a gesture of openness. “Like I said, Bran—Kirkwall’s home. You know how it is; this city gets into your blood. I wanted to see how things were going, maybe catch up with a few old friends.”

Bran’s gaze was sharp, probing for any hint of deception. “And yet, you’ve been lying low since your return. I expected someone with your reputation to be more… visible.”

Varric chuckled, the sound light and disarming. “I’ve been keeping a low profile, sure. After everything that happened, I figured it was best to get a lay of the land before making any moves. But I’ve noticed something interesting, Bran—your men seem awfully interested in my movements.”

The Viscount’s smile was thin, calculating. “I like to keep an eye on things, Varric. Especially when someone of your stature returns to the city after such a long absence. You understand, of course.”

“Of course,” Varric echoed, nodding. “Can’t be too careful these days. But I have to wonder—what exactly are you worried about?”

Bran’s expression didn’t waver, but there was an unmistakable edge to his voice as he spoke. “I’m not worried, Varric. I’m simply cautious. Kirkwall is a city in transition, and I’m keen to see it steered in the right direction. The people I choose to ally myself with need to be carefully considered.”

Varric leaned forward slightly, his tone measured. “Is that what this is about? You think I might be a potential ally?”

“Perhaps,” Bran replied, his eyes locked on Varric’s. “But before we discuss that further, I need to know where your loyalties lie. The Inquisition was not known for its subtlety, and you’ve been in their service for some time. If I were to extend a hand to you, I’d need to be certain you weren’t carrying any… lingering ties.”

Varric didn’t flinch, his expression calm and unreadable. “I’m not in the habit of making commitments without knowing what I’m getting into. Let’s just say I’m open to possibilities. But if you’re looking for guarantees, Bran, you’re not going to get them—not from me.”

Bran studied Varric for a long moment, as if weighing his words carefully. “Fair enough. I’m not asking for your loyalty today, Varric. I’m simply asking you to consider where you might fit into the future of this city. Things are changing, and those who choose the right side will find themselves in positions of power and influence.”

“And those who don’t?” Varric asked, his tone light but with an underlying seriousness.

Bran’s smile was cold. “They’ll be left behind.”

Varric nodded slowly, absorbing the Viscount’s words. “I’ll keep that in mind, Bran. But like I said, I’m not making any decisions just yet. I’ve got a few things to take care of first.”

“Of course,” Bran said, his tone dismissive but polite. “Take your time, Varric. Just remember that time waits for no one.”

Varric stood, offering the Viscount a nod. “I’ll keep that in mind. We’ll talk again soon, Bran.”

As Varric left the Keep, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he’d just walked a tightrope over a pit of vipers. Bran was clearly up to something, and whatever it was, he needed to be careful—one wrong move, and he could find himself caught, in another cellar, and with someone much less pleasant than Cassandra. And that is telling something.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

Nuria entered the grand halls of Lord Aldridge’s estate, the clack of her shoes on the marble floor echoing through the opulent space. The ones she had to use as a servant were even more uncomfortable than boots. It was maddening at times, her feet yearned to be free. The estate was an imposing structure, filled with lavish furnishings and high ceilings adorned with intricate chandeliers. She had been working here for a few weeks now, trying to maintain a low profile while assisting with various household duties. Today she was to serve tea to Lady Aldridge herself. Of course, it was a ploy from the other servants, an easy way to get the rabbit to ‘cry and leave’ as Elcy said in between laughs to her adoring public.

Lady Aldridge was known for her sharp tongue and haughty demeanor, and today seemed no exception. Nuria had just finished setting the table for tea in the sunroom when Lady Aldridge strode into the room, her face a mask of discontent. 

“What a sight this is,” Lady Aldridge sniffed, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the room. Her gaze landed on Nuria, who was carefully arranging the teacups. “The help always seems to manage such a shoddy job. Do you even know how to properly set a table?”

Nuria kept her gaze lowered, focusing on her task. “I’m sorry if it’s not up to your standards, Lady Aldridge. I’ll make sure to correct it.”

Lady Aldridge’s eyes flashed with disdain. “Correct it? How many times do I have to remind you? You people just don’t understand the importance of presentation.” She turned sharply. She was known for her dislike of elves, and was fighting her husband every step of the way to send them back. Like they were ugly packages to be disposed of, not people. 

“You’re nothing but a rabbit that my husband had the grace, or the gall, to hire here.”

Nuria flinched slightly at the harsh words, but she remained silent, trying to keep her composure. She fully expected it, and yet it was still a hit. Like when she sparred with Cullen at the beginning, and he would insist on padded supplements. 

Lady Aldridge muttered under her breath “Why do they have to send just the elf? The butler is really lacking lately” 

Hit. Hit. ‘One more Inquisitor’

Lady Aldridge turned and continued, her voice dripping with condescension. “I don’t know why my husband insisted on hiring you lot, but I’ll make sure that you won’t be long.”

Hit. ‘Harder now!’

Nuria’s heart pounded, but she forced herself to remain calm. “I’m here to serve, Lady Aldridge. I hope that’s enough.”

“Enough?” Lady Aldridge’s voice rose with indignation. “You’re nothing but a reminder of the filth beneath us.” and she threw her arrangement on the floor with a defiant smile. It shattered on the floor with a loud crash. Usually servants would come and check out the problem, but they were probably watching from the servants’ passageways and giggling.

“Fetch, rabbit” said Lady Aldridge with an unbearable air of superiority and a feral smile on her lips. She was enjoying this.

HIT. Swipe. Dodge. ‘That’s it, I need 10 of those now.’

The words stung, but Nuria clenched her jaw and avoided meeting Lady Aldridge’s eyes. She busied herself with getting the cutlery from the floor, starting getting the delicate china onto a napkin, and trying to ignore the barbed comments.

Lady Aldridge approached Nuria and bent, a considerable effort considered her corset, her face close enough to feel her sharp breath. “If you can’t even perform the simplest of tasks properly, perhaps it’s time you reconsider your position. Or better yet, leave.” She raised, kicking idly the pieces of china Nuria had diligently put on the cloth.

Nuria took a deep breath and raised to face the woman, but before she could respond, Lady Aldridge’s hand shot out, delivering a sharp slap across Nuria’s face. The force of it left Nuria reeling, her hand instinctively flying to her cheek. 

The pain was sharp and immediate, the rings had cut her cheek, but it was the humiliation that cut deeper. Nuria’s whole body stung with a mix of pain and rage. She tried to steady herself, forcing back the surge of emotions, her anchor pulsed and she couldn’t let it activate here. Push it in, push it down.

Lady Aldridge’s lips curled into a sneer. “You answer when I talk to you, knife-ear. I will not repeat myself for you”

With that, Lady Aldridge turned on her heel, leaving Nuria standing alone in the cold grandeur of the room. The echo of Lady Aldridge’s footsteps faded, but the sting of the slap and the harsh words lingered.

-

The slap stung. With the weight of all her rings, Lady Aldridge scratched Nuria's face. She couldn't even heal it, or she would be discovered. So she had to sit with it, and she felt her face getting more swollen every minute. She was done for the day. When she approach the kitchen with the pieces she heard the snickering, she could almost hear the comments, but she was done with her shift, and wouldn't suffer one minute longer than she had to.

She made sure to announce herself by stomping - very - loudly into the room, and she ignored the shush and the lingering smiles around her. She just deposited the shattered teacup on the table and said

“Lady Aldridge has accidentally dropped this. It needs to be disposed of”

A chuckle escaped in the background. Elcy.

*Butler* “A shame. Was Lady Aldridge satisfied with your performance? I regret with had to send you but we were all otherwise engaged” he gestures at the group.

The table was enjoying tea and biscuits, with one of the younger man still chewing one as *Butler* spoke

“She did not” *Butler* smile widened “But she was not enthusiastic about your performance either, *Butler*. She thought it was lacking from your part to send me of all people.”

*Butler* smile froze in alarm. “Did she…express discontent?” 

“Loudly” said Nuria, contrite on the outside, but smiling widely on the inside “She said she would call you soon for a performance review” she lied convingly, even making a show of putting uncomfortably a strand of hair behind her long ears.

With the clear image of *Butler*’s panic, she left the mansion. If she heard another snicker she might have pushed a whole cupboard over with magic, just to see them squirm.

-

Nuria slumped on her bed, exhausted. That night, as soon as she entered the Fade, she was met with yet another memory of her and Solas. The memory was of them on their little balcony in Skyhold, and this time it wasn't chaste. 

They were on the blankets, kissing with a hunger that bordered madness, clothes partially shed and thrown around. Solas was bare chested, and Nuria was on his lap, legs to either side of him, kissing him deeply and exploring his body with her hands. The buttons of her two piece suit were opened just enough to expose her breastband, a love bite on her chest, where none would see but him, and one on her neck, where a keen observer could see. She started kissing his neck, lavishing with attention his most sensitive spots, going with her hands to explore the muscles of his chest and kissed him there too, leaving him shuddering and biting back sounds that delighted her. He would never allow himself to express pleasure liberally, and Nuria took that as a personal challenge, every time he allowed her to have her to tempt his so. She also placed love bites on his neck and chest, marking him as he marked her. She would later touch those spots over his clothes, with an excuse and intentionally, to remind him of this moment, yet another game of desire. When she moved further down, using her hands to explore his lean stomach, however, he took both of her wrists and tackled her onto the blankets, pinning her down with both hands beside her head. 

They were both breathing heavily and looked at each other with want. He kissed her hungrily again, tongue diving into her mouth and around her own, rabid, gripping her wrists so tightly it almost hurt, and bit her again where he had placed the love mark on her neck. She gasped. 

He pulled back to look at her, his eyes as avid as the rest of himself, lips glinting, pink and swollen with the intensity of their kisses, blue eyes sparkling and dark at one time. He was so handsome, intensely affected like that, love and desire driving his every breath.

He kept looking at her for a long time, drinking her in, mind and body fighting. She could see the gears in his head turning, or attempting to. Then he got that look. The look of guilt and pain that always drew him away. He took a long breath and distanced himself, standing and going to the balcony’s railing, a hand on the nape of his neck, trying to recuperate his senses and better judgment.

“I apologize, I went too far. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable”

Nuria sat, flushed and dishevel, her heart beating hard against her chest, and responded

“I wasn't uncomfortable, I…actually I really liked that” 

He looked back at her with a look that made her blush deepen, like he was about to pounce on her. Then he turned again, taking deep breaths.

Sleeping Nuria blushed at the memory and wished it away with a gesture. That's the moment Solas' message reached her. She turned crimson, like she was surprised doing something she shouldn't. He was neutrally delivering information on how to feel more comfortable in Kirkwall despite the state of the Fade there.

The contrast between the passionate man she had just witnessed in her dreams and the professional tone of the message was a knife to the heart. She should have wished that memory away immediately instead of indulging in it. She should be dreaming of Cullen, or none at all, not him. Why was it always him? As far as she knew, Dorian could be right, maybe he has a family, a life somewhere. That thought sent a chill down her spine. She would never be able to forgive him for something like that. Anger surged again in her guts. At times, she could read him like an open book, but he was, maybe will forever be, a mystery. He was an ancient elf, she had accepted that, but she felt that his secret was bigger than that. At one time she wanted to find out and was terrified to. Maybe it was all part of his plan. Make her love you, so she won’t see the truth. She had trouble accepting what her brain had already understood weeks, maybe months prior. Maybe her head figured out other secrets that she just didn’t want to see.

She sighed. The message was detailing a disturbing ritual involving darkspawn and a woman from the alienage who needed escorting to Kirkwall. Solas mentioned his failed attempt to reach Cullen through the Fade, his frustration palpable.

Nuria couldn’t help but chuckle at the irony. For someone so deeply immersed in the Chantry, accepting that his rival could be sending a message through a dream might be too much to ask, even if he was warned.

Despite her laughter, a pang of pain gripped her heart. It hurt that Solas had come to Cullen but had not come to her own dreams. Their exchanges had been mere thoughts sent across the veil, devoid of his physical presence. It stung, a reminder of his commitment to stay away from her as much as possible, of the fact that he didn't have feelings for her anymore.

As much as she had convinced herself to stay away from him, to move on, she could not deny the ache in her chest, or the content of her dreams. The Fade around her began to shift, reflecting one of their many memories together. It materialized into their sanctuary: the balcony at Skyhold, bathed in the soft light of a starry night. They lay together on blankets, wrapped in each other's warmth, exchanging stories and legends.

Nuria observed her past self with a sense of yearning. She saw herself content, with her head resting on Solas’s chest, feeling cherished and loved. In that moment, she had believed in a future that stretched into forever. Now, she had to battle with the reality of “never”. Never again, will he hold her close. Never again, will he be just a thought away. They will never be together.

With a resolute breath, she forced herself to focus. “Cullen,” she told herself firmly. With a deliberate gesture, she erased the memory of Solas from her mind and replaced it with one of Cullen’s heartfelt declaration of love. That memory of Cullen’s genuine and intense feelings made her flush with emotion. It was a reminder of the sincerity of his love, and she hoped it would be enough to help her move forward.

The whimsical spirit of Curiosity fluttered around her—a frog with enormous, brilliant red bee wings. It hovered near her, its presence both oddly comforting and a little surreal. “How do you learn to love someone?” the spirit asked her.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice tinged with frustration. Her life would be easier if she did. “But it’s time to go to the Verdant Luminary.” With that, she let the memory of Cullen fade away, focusing instead on the path to her teacher.

The path to the Verdant Luminary, though familiar, seemed to shimmer with new possibilities. As she prepared to walk towards her destination, she felt the presence of Mystery, a subtle but reassuring companion on her journey.

“Let’s go, Mystery!” she said with a newfound determination. As she made her way along the path, a pair of wolf’s eyes observed her from the shadows, their gaze intense and watchful. She ignored the spirit and kept walking, ready to seek the wisdom of the Verdant Luminary.

-

Nuria and Merrill were huddled over the ancient Eluvian, its cracked surface glimmering faintly in the dim light of Merrill's modest home. The air in the room was thick with the scent of herbs and the faint coppery tang of blood magic, remnants of Merrill’s earlier attempts to repair the relic. The Eluvian was surrounded by scattered notes, vials of lyrium, and a few ancient tomes that had seen better days.

Merrill traced a finger along one of the fractures in the mirror’s surface, her brow furrowed in concentration. “The fractures are deep,” she murmured, almost to herself. “It’s been damaged here, and it’s seeping through the cracks.”

Nuria nodded, her hands glowing with the familiar light of magic as she reached out to the mirror’s magic, feeling the ebb and flow of the Fade around the broken artifact. “The Eluvian is still connected to the Fade,” she said, her voice thoughtful. “But it’s unstable. The energies are erratic, like a web with too many broken threads.”

Merrill bit her lip, worry creasing her features. “I’ve tried using blood magic to bind the cracks, but the Eluvian resists. It’s as if it’s rejecting the blood magic. The mirror needs something more… intrinsic to its nature. Something that resonates with its purpose.”

Nuria considered this, her mind racing through the possibilities. “Blood magic can anchor the Eluvian’s form in the physical world, but its true nature is of the Fade. It might need something that reconnects it to the Fade correctly rather than merely repairing its form. The threads have been shredded, like most of the connection is missing” It would make sense if Fen’harel actually created the Veil, making most of the old connections useless. But why do that?

Merrill looked at Nuria, her green eyes bright with curiosity. “Like what? The Eluvians were made by ancient elves, possibly using a form of magic we don’t fully understand. What could we use?”

Nuria’s gaze shifted to the tomes scattered around them, her thoughts taking a different direction. “Perhaps a memory,” she said slowly. “Memories are powerful in the Fade. They shape the reality there. If I could find a memory strong enough, a memory tied to the Eluvian’s purpose, we might be able to weave it into the repair.”

Merrill tilted her head, intrigued. “A memory? But how would we even find one that’s tied to this Eluvian?”

Nuria smiled faintly. “The Eluvians are all connected, like nodes in a network. If we enter the Fade, we might be able to follow those connections, and trace them back to a time when this Eluvian was whole. It’s risky, though. I don’t know where I would find that kind of memory or a spirit willing to help.”

Merrill nodded, her expression determined. “Risky, but worth it. This Eluvian could be a key to rediscovering lost knowledge, maybe even a way to reconnect with our ancestors’ wisdom.”

Nuria placed her hand on the surface of the Eluvian, closing her eyes as she let her magic flow through it. She could feel the echoes of ancient magic, the remnants of a time long past, hidden beneath the layers of damage. “I wish I had more time to help, I’m investigating, training and doing so many things in the Fade as it is, I don’t know,” she said, opening her eyes to meet Merrill’s gaze. “But I’ll try. Maybe Kael would know more ways to help. In the meantime, let’s keep researching.”

Merrill’s face lit up with one of her wide smiles, her excitement palpable. “I knew you’d understand, Nuria. I’ve been trying to explain this to others, but they don't understand. But you… you see what it could be.”

Nuria returned the smile, though hers was tinged with the weight of what she was about to attempt. “We’ll take it one step at a time. Let’s gather what we need, and then… we’ll see where the Fade leads us.”

“As long as Zore stops using it to hang her clothes” they both chuckle

“Well, it's sturdy, tall” Nuria looks at the ropes Zore tied around the frame.

“I just wish she would have asked” Merrill added, a bit of tension building in her shoulders

“I'm sorry Merrill, you've been such a generous host, if you like I can talk to her” Nuria takes one of her hands and squeezes, prodding her friend to look at her

“Don't worry about it, we did need space to hang our clothes inside, and the floor space is taken” she gestures vaguely at the room

“We have more important things to think about than that” she shrugs and squeezes Nuria's hand back. 

SOLAS

Solas paced restlessly around the makeshift camp outside Kirkwall. His frustration grew with each step, the cool night air doing little to soothe him. The survivor they had rescued from the darkspawn blood ritual proved to be a greater challenge than anticipated. Her memory had been wiped clean, and the little she did remember was too fragmented by trauma for him to explore without breaking her mind. She needed time. Nuria would help her in Kirkwall, surely, and after being soothed her memories would be easier to explore.

He glanced over at the survivor, who sat some distance away from the others, her gaze distant and wary. Since their rescue, she had clung to him for comfort,  something that made progress increasingly complicated. The other men in his unit, rough and unrefined, had shown little understanding of how to interact with her. Their attempts ranged from awkward to outright inappropriate, making the young woman’s distress palpable. Solas was keenly aware of her precarious position, and as much as he needed escape, if he left she could have done something out of fear that would complicate things further. But working on his mission was the only thing that kept him sane at the moment, with the twin threats of Mythal and Elgar’nan plaguing him. Corypheus, of course, was still a relevant threat, but was set aside for the two forces he reckoned to be far more dangerous than the Tevinter Magister could ever be. 

He took a deep breath, determined to find a solution. He spotted Fedin, who had shown himself to be relatively mild-mannered, compared to the others, and that had just been minding his business when it came to the prisoner. He approached the young man, his tone firm but not unkind.

“Fedin, a word,” Solas said, beckoning him to step aside from the group. Fedin, who had been sharpening his blade, looked up with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

“Yes, sir?” Fedin replied, wiping his hands on a cloth. 

“I need to discuss how we handle the survivor,” Solas began, his voice low and serious. “You have observed her interactions with the others.”

Fedin nodded, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Yes, I’ve noticed. Some of the men… they don’t seem to understand how to speak to her properly.”

“That is precisely the issue,” Solas agreed. “Her current state makes her particularly vulnerable. It is crucial that we maintain her trust and ensure she feels safe around us.”

Fedin shifted uncomfortably. “So, what do you want me to do?”

“Go to her. Speak to her gently and respectfully,” Solas instructed. “She is frightened and confused. She needs to feel secure. She cannot place her full trust in me, nor can I afford to remain idle. I must attend my duties until the Inquisition's forces arrive to ensure her safe return home. Your approach should be calm and supportive. Avoid any behavior that could be construed as aggressive or intrusive.”

“Understood,” Fedin said, though a trace of uncertainty lingered in his eyes.

Solas studied the young man for a moment. “I trust you can manage this. Your demeanor so far has been more considerate than others. Ensure the rest of the unit follows this example. Or at least, be a supportive figure for the survivor.”

“Of course, sir,” Fedin replied, nodding earnestly.

With that, Solas dismissed him and turned his attention back to the survivor. He observed Fedin’s careful approach as he offered her water and food with a gentleness that was reassuring. The sight put Solas at ease, knowing that there was at least one member of his unit who understood the importance of handling the situation with care.

Feeling the need for a brief escape, Solas decided to take a moment for himself. He told the unit he felt a disturbance in the Veil he wished to investigate and moved away from them. Before, when he lacked the second fragment of power, he was unable to shift in the Waking world. Now, he needed that escape more than ever. He was unable to locate Nuria’s attackers, they were likely dead already, and the charred bodies he saw that night confirmed it. He didn’t want to dig too deep into her memories of that event, but the shock of discovering something so dark, something she’d never shared, left a mark. 

It seemed unfair to feel hurt by this, considering the weight of his own secrets, but it did shed light on her in ways he hadn’t fully understood before.

It was rare for her to judge someone’s morality. She had a way of never pressing him for answers when she sensed something was wrong. Was this because she understood what it meant to carry a secret too heavy to share?

He remembered how, on those rare nights when he’d wake up gasping from a nightmare, his heart racing and sweat dampening his brow, she would always be there. Her presence was a balm, a gentle antidote to the sharp edges of his fears. She had a way of easing him back from the precipice, but she always asked him if she could touch him. He would never refuse her touch, but now understood why she felt the need to ask.

“You don’t need to tell me anything,” she’d say softly, her voice a warm whisper in the darkness. “We can stay like this as long as you need.” With those words, she would pull him close, her arms wrapping around him with a tenderness that seemed to chase away the darkness.

She would stroke his scalp and back with a calming rhythm, her fingers moving with ease, quieting his racing mind. Sometimes she would hum  soft lullabies, her voice melting in him in a warmth and safety that lulled him back into a peaceful sleep. Other times, she simply spoke soothing words, her voice steady and unwavering, a lighthouse in the storm of his fears.

He was aware of the murmurs that drifted through Skyhold’s inner circle—the laughter and speculation about their shared nights, about what those moments were. Sera randomly shouting Elven Glory. To some, it was a topic of light-hearted gossip, a source of amusement.

But to him, those nights were sacred. The simple act of lying next to her, feeling the rise and fall of her breath, her warmth beside him, was a profound gift. It wasn’t just about the comfort she provided or the way her presence chased away his nightmares. It was about the trust, the deep-seated love they shared, a love that went beyond what he could express. He wanted her, but being with her was about more than lust.

He often thought about being hers, fully and completely. But reality was a harsh master. There were boundaries he couldn’t cross, and parts of himself he couldn’t fully offer. The weight of that reality was heavy, and yet, he cherished these moments of closeness, however fleeting they were. He needed that now. He needed her to whisper that she was there for him, feeling her warmth in his arms. But he couldn’t have it, so he needed to run.

His fragmented connection with the remnant of Mythal, his feelings for Nuria, the challenges of the Inquisition, and the mistakes he had made all pressed upon him like a boulder he could never stop pushing, or it would crush him. 

The world seemed like a shadow, and he was responsible for its darkness. And he didn’t have his moon to shine on him and calm his nerves anymore.

With a deep breath, he let go of his elven form and shifted into his lupine shape. Tonight, he was a black wolf. The transformation was immediate, and as he took off into the night, the cool air filled his lungs, and the ground beneath him felt firm and welcoming. He raced through the barren landscape, the rhythmic pounding of his paws a steady counterpoint to the tumult of his thoughts. The physical exertion offered clarity and respite from the tangled mess of concerns and frustrations.

The run was cathartic. It allowed him to clear his mind, even if only for a short while. The cool night air and the solitude of the wilderness offered a brief sanctuary from his responsibilities and worries. As the night wore on and exhaustion began to take its toll, Solas knew he had to return to his duties. The temporary escape had provided him with the mental clarity he needed.

Just as Solas was about to shift back to his elven form and head back to the camp, Cole emerged from the darkness. His presence was both familiar and unsettling, and he looked more wary than usual.

“You’re still hurting” Cole said, his voice carrying a strange resonance, as if echoing from somewhere deep within the Veil. “Heart ripped, too many directions to take but the one I want is barred. But you’re the only one barring the way.”

Solas sighed, feeling the weight of Cole’s words. “Not anymore, Cole. She wants something different now.”

Cole’s eyes flickered with a mixture of curiosity and sadness. “She just wants to want different.”

Solas shook his head. “We’ve already talked about it, Cole. I appreciate your concern, but this hurt is my own. However, we have a survivor of a blood ritual that could really use your help.”

The mention of the survivor seemed to shift Cole’s focus. He tilted his head thoughtfully before nodding. Cole vanished into the darkness, and moments later, Solas made his way back to the camp. He found Cole there, fully engaged in his role as a Spirit of Compassion.

Solas approached the camp, feeling a measure of relief at seeing Cole’s work. The spirit was interacting with the survivor in a way that calmed her fears and began to restore her sense of security. Solas knew that Cole’s unique ability to connect with and heal troubled souls would be invaluable in helping the young woman.

As Solas settled into his tent, he felt just tired and in need of sleep. 

He entered the Fade with a clearer mind. He spent time checking on the progress his agents made. Apparently there was a site that could interest him, a city that predated the formation of the Veil he was familiar with, that could contain precious information about Elgar’nan, and a source of power for him to regain part of his strength.

He was pretty happy with the progress, and that is when a message from her arrived. Solas couldn’t help but chuckle softly to himself. Why did the sound of her voice affect him so much? It was sweet and delicate, just like she was. Even after all this time, she still managed to surprise him. She mentioned that the Veil felt thin in Kirkwall, and the Fade there was thick with negative spirits, leaving her uneasy even when she was awake. He hadn’t expected her to be so attuned to the Fade that she would notice something like that. She was worried about him, how he would feel there, and asked him for his advice. She tried to keep her tone neutral, but he heard the slight crack in her voice when she expressed concern for him. She still cared. He shouldn’t be happy about it—after all, it could just be her natural concern, the same she showed for everyone in the Inquisition.

He responded with instructions, his fingers hesitating only for a moment before sending the message with a gesture. 

He was about to return to his work when another message from her arrived. This time, her tone was sharper, irritated. She wanted to know how to unblock memories that seemed locked away from her in Kirkwall. He knew, just from the edge in her voice, that she had realized the truth. It wasn’t just about Kirkwall. She had caught on to the fact that he had been blocking her memories—memories of him and the Evanuris. She already knew too much, and even a small piece of the truth could lead her to uncover his true identity. He lied, telling her it was an advanced technique.

But she’d know he was lying. She could find a spirit willing to teach her. He couldn’t bind every Wisdom spirit to his will.

“You could mold her into your most formidable agent,” Purpose whispered, tempting him.

“She could be with you, fully, at your side, forever. Never alone, never again,” Love added, its voice almost pleading.

Solas clenched his jaw, forcing the spirits' voices out of his mind. It was impossible.

“She’ll fight you. She’ll call you out for the monster that you are, and you’ll have to kill her—the only good thing this world has given you.” Fear gnawed at him, relentless.

Desire took on her form, dressed in something revealing, something that bared almost all. “Just take me, Dread Wolf. How long has it been, again?” the spirit taunted, her voice sultry.

He willed them all away, frustration boiling just beneath the surface.

Maybe Desire had a point. Maybe it wasn’t about her at all, but rather the fact that it had been too long since he had been with a woman. He didn't really want anything—or anyone—for so long. Maybe this was just a physical issue, something he needed to get out of his system. Kirkwall would provide plenty of opportunities.

But…he sighed. He didn’t want just a body beneath him; he wanted her. The realization hit him with a force that nearly took his breath away. He wanted her with a depth and intensity that startled him. He craved not just her touch but her heart. He wanted to explore the depths of her beautiful spirit, to have her all for him, completely. He didn’t just want pleasure; he wanted her. Mythal was right. He loved her. And the more he tried to stay away, the more undeniable that truth became. He loved her in a way he didn’t remember ever loving anyone else.

The relationships he had before the Veil were always tinged with self-interest. Even if some women truly loved him, part of their attraction had always been tied to his power, his status. He might not have been an Evanuris by name, but it was by choice, and most people still considered him one one them. To most he was one of Mythal’s children, no less than Andruil or Falon’din. He had never been loved just for himself, without the intoxicating allure of power muddying the waters. That’s why she was dangerous to his mission. She was real, and she saw him—just him. And that was enough for her to give him all the love and devotion she had.

He pressed a hand to the back of his neck, an attempt to relieve the tension building there. He needed to find a way to forget her, to push her out of his mind before everything unraveled.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp voice of the survivor, Laria, calling out to him. He woke up and rolled his eyes, irritation flaring. She always seemed to know the worst possible moment to demand his attention. Later that day, soldiers arrived to take her away, and he found himself oddly relieved to be rid of the distraction. Finally, he could go back to work. But even as he watched her go, his thoughts drifted back to the one person he couldn’t seem to escape.

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

Later, working the evening shift at Lord Aldridge's estate, Nuria was in the midst of her daily chores, moving briskly through the grand hall with a tray of whiskey and pastries. The estate was as imposing and opulent as ever, and she tried her best to maintain a professional demeanor despite the constant discomfort of her role.

The room was filled with the usual bustle of guests mingling and chatting, their voices blending into a low murmur. Nuria approached a group of nobles who were gathered around a table, ready to serve them their refreshments. She moved efficiently, carefully balancing the tray as she navigated through the crowd.

Just as she reached the table, a nobleman in an extravagant outfit—his face adorned with a well-groomed mustache and an air of entitlement—reached out casually, his fingers brushing against Nuria’s lower back. She barely had time to react before his hand slid lower, grabbing her ass with an unsettling familiarity.

Nuria froze, a shiver of disgust raising from the base of her spine as she felt the grab. She tried to maintain her composure, her face flushing with a mixture of shock and anger. Her grip tightened on the tray as she forced herself to continue serving the guests, desperately trying to ignore the unwelcome contact.

The nobleman’s hand lingered for a moment before he withdrew, a smug smile on his lips as he exchanged a glance with his companions. Nuria’s stomach churned, and she fought to keep her expression neutral, even though her cheeks were burning with humiliation.

The crowd continued their conversations, oblivious to the incident that had just occurred. Or maybe it was just so commonplace that nobody found it worth commenting on. Nuria quickly finished serving the whiskey and cigars, her movements hurried and stiff. She avoided making eye contact with the nobleman, focusing instead on her tasks, hoping to disappear into the background.

As she made her way to the kitchen to replenish her tray, Nuria’s hands trembled slightly. She took a deep breath, trying to calm the rising tide of emotions. The encounter had left her feeling violated and small, despite her best efforts to appear unaffected.

In the quiet of the kitchen, she set the tray down and leaned against the counter, taking a moment to compose herself. The smug face, the familiarity, the way he had done it in front of the other nobles like it was normal. The indignity of the experience, the powerlessness, it all made her memories come back to haunt her. 

She was an helpless teenager again, running, pleading, hiding. A fire started burning in her core, and it raged all the way through the rest of her body. The anchor throbbed painfully. 

There’s a shockwave of pain. The way his hand grabbed her hair to yank her out of her hiding spot. 

Another shockwave. On the ground, surrounded. 

Another shockwave. ‘Stop fussing’

Fire.

Her hand shot towards the embers burning in the fireplace in the kitchen, and the fire that starts becomes a raging inferno in seconds, enveloping the whole, massive fireplace and shooting up and out. The fire threatens to eat everything, like it did that night. And it should. Burn it all. Burn them whole.

Then Nuria flinched as the heath started burning her skin too. Her eyelids fluttered, and the pain brought her to reality again. The flames in the fireplace went back under control. 

She was breathing hard, facing the hearth fully, both her arms shooting out towards the hearth, a growl still resonating in her lungs.

She looked around, blessfully there was none. She straightened herself, and looked at the aftermath: there were scorching marks on the ground and on the hearth, to add to the others that in time had made that kitchen lived in, but the head cook would notice. It looked like someone had let the fire go out of control. Her skin wasn’t burned. 

Another shockwave. The laughs.

Nuria banged her marked hand on the wall, hard, and the intense pain traveled all the way into the mark.

Hungry hands on her writhing body, trying to escape.

Bang.

The look of excitement and sheer, lighthearted fun they shared among each other. A game.

BANG.

“Don’t cover her mouth, we’re far enough from camp. Keep her still”

BANG.

She had started punching the wall. Blood was traveling down her knuckles. She observed it, and it grounded her in reality once more. She looked around again, then went into a cupboard and quickly healed her throbbing hand, cleaned it and went back to work.

Nuria knew she would have to face the rest of her shift with forced calm, that the incident wouldn’t be the last one like that, but there, in that moment, she knew she would memorize all the names and faces of the nobles that would dare touch her or any another servant. 

She didn’t even know exactly what she would do with them, she just needed to do something about it that didn't threaten her cover, or things like that would eventually catch up with her. If she couldn’t burn them to ashes, she would at least be aware of who they were.

Burning could come later.

VARRIC

He really did miss Glimmer. When he first saw her, he didn’t think much of her. She looked like a gush of wind could knock her off, he fully expected to be her baby sitter. But oh was he wrong. It was rare for him to be mistaken about someone, but Glimmer surprised him, even now. 

She expected her to see him immediately after coming to Kirkwall, but she was being careful, sending messages through Merrill, saying it would be suspicious if they went buddy buddy immediately, so she slowly built up to it. She would say hello when he accompanied Merrill back to the Alienage after a night of drinking, sporting a vaguely suspicious face. She asked around for his reputation, saying she was afraid her friend was being taken advantage of. She even accompanied Merrill to the Hanged Man just to turn back at the entrance. She was acting well, and her endless apologies in messages just made it funny. 

He had heard everything from Merrill. It was interesting getting to know Nuria again from her perspective. On the surface the two were actually similar, but knowing them, they were actually polar opposites in some ways. 

He asked about Nuria after a few days since her moving to Kirkwall

-

“So, Merrill,” Varric began casually, “Now that we’ve had a chance to spend some time with Ilia, what do you make of her?”

Merrill looked up from her tankard, her eyes bright with interest. “Oh, Ilia?” she said, her voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. “She’s... well, she’s quite something, isn’t she?”

Varric chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Quite something” is a bit vague, don’t you think? What’s your take on her? First impressions?”

Merrill wiped her hands on a cloth, taking a moment to collect her thoughts. “Well, she’s very different from most people I’ve met. When I met her I thought she would be, well, not very leader-ly. I wondered if she was actually the Inquisitor or if it was Zore. But she’s always thinking of others, even when it’s not obvious. There’s a kind of strength in her that’s not immediately obvious. I thought she would be…I don't know. I didn’t expect her to be cunning after seeing her the first time. Sometimes she does things I don’t understand, but turns out there’s always a plan. But I think she has something I can’t quite see that makes me nervous.”

Merrill slumped back in her chair “I believe she’s good, but also that there’s something to her I can’t quite place.”

Varric chuckled “She’s one of those people that is more and less than what she seems, I assure you”

-

On another night, Merrill came with another piece of the puzzle

Apparently the Inquisitor had started teaching the illiterate in the Alienage how to read

Merrill nodded, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I didn’t expect the Inquisitor to care. She has this way of taking charge and helping even if she's not asked, or welcome. She’s also helping a pregnant teenager manage her symptoms and take care of her little sister, it was actually the little sister that gave her the idea. I never imagined she would care so much about the small things, the everyday struggles of people. I heard of the big things, but it’s not just grand gestures. I thought she would be colder”

Varric asked “Did she brood and say that it would attract too much attention?”

“Yes”

“But she does it anyway?”

“Yes”

Varric chuckled “That’s Glimmer for you”

“Some people don't like it, Talia thinks she's a know-it-all”

“Do you agree with her?”

“Sometimes she is, but she means well” Merrill shrugs

-

Another night, another tale. This time Merrill was mad at the Inquisitor

“She hid stuff from me!” Merrill rarely shouted, but she almost got there

“What about?”

“The Vallaslin, and our Gods. She could be lying though, she must be”

Varric, who had been sitting quietly by the fire, looked up in surprise. “What do you mean, Merrill?”

“The Vallaslin, And our Gods!” Merrill's voice was thick with accusation. “She told me they were slave markings. And she implied that our gods—”

She sat next to him, head in her hands “It must be a lie, she lies so easily”

“Why do you think so?”

“She made up this whole story about her mentor at the circle, but he never existed. She told me she was setting up a backstory for Solas” she waved her hands in the air “Like it was nothing”

Varric nodded “And about your Gods?”

Merrill shook her head “I…I just need time to think”

-

Varric leaned back in his usual spot at the Hanged Man, his tankard of ale cradled in one hand as he watched the ebb and flow of patrons around him. The tavern was as lively as ever, filled with the usual mix of raucous laughter, heated arguments, and the occasional brawl. He enjoyed these nights—there was something comforting about the noise and chaos.

Tonight, though, he was waiting for a particular group. Merrill had mentioned that Nuria would finally make an appearance.

When the door creaked open, Varric’s eyes flicked over casually. There they were—Merrill leading the way with her usual boundless energy, followed by two other elves: Sheranna, looking around with a mix of curiosity and caution, and Zore, who already seemed comfortable in the rough atmosphere of the Hanged Man. And then, trailing just behind them, was Nuria—or rather, Ilia.

Her transformation was impressive. The long stark white hair he was so used to seeing was now a lively copper, cut short just below her chin. Her outfit was simple, practical, and would have made her blend in perfectly if not for the way she carried herself—calm, measured, her back too straight for a city elf, and with a hint of mischief. Varric smirked. She was enjoying this. Their eyes met. This would be a fun one.

As the group made their way through the crowd, Varric quickly went through all the similes and metaphors related to fire he could cook up that second, replacing the ones related to light, snow and the like he would use to write her. She did look freer without the weight of being the Inquisitor pressing on her shoulders.

He raised his hand in greeting. “Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite Elven emissaries,” he called out, his tone light and teasing.

Merrill was the first to reach him, practically bouncing in excitement. “Varric! I brought everyone, just like I said I would!”

Varric’s grin widened as he looked her over. “Well, hello there, strangers,” he said, his voice dripping with playful mockery. Then, to Nuria “Have you finally decided that I am not an enemy?”

Nuria smiled, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Just checking in on the person that spends so much time with Merrill after being part of a dangerous organization. I heard he’s a famous storyteller. Thought I’d check it out for myself.”

“Is that so?” Varric leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “You sure you’re ready to hear a tale or two? This place can get a little wild, and the stories aren’t exactly the kind you’d hear in a fancy keep.”

Nuria laughed, a sound that seemed to fit right in with the rowdy atmosphere of the Hanged Man. “I think I can handle it. I might even have a few stories of my own to share if you’re lucky.”

Varric chuckled. “Oh, I have no doubt about that.” He turned his attention to the others. “Ladies, make yourselves at home. Drinks are on me tonight. And don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on our dear Ilia here. Wouldn’t want her getting into any trouble.”

Merrill giggled, clearly enjoying the ruse. “I think Ilia will be just fine. But you shouldn't offer drinks to Zore, she will dry you out completely .”

Zore and Sheranna exchanged glances before taking seats at the table. Zore grabbed a tankard of ale with a grin adding

“That's right, but too late for take backs! He will learn his lesson the hard way”

Sheranna seemed more hesitant, sipping carefully from her drink.

The conversation flew easily between them, and the little group soon found themselves engrossed in a game of cards, punctuated by laughs and jokes.

“And then, Falon’din be my witness and drag me into his realm right now if I'm lying he said” she cliffs dramatically 

“Our Lord possess an acumen that is unrivaled in all of Thedas” the group laughed. “The very same man that we end hunger by ‘distributing bread plants’ to the poor” Nuria was reeling

“How about that time he suggested mages fight ‘just using their hands’ to make themselves more inconspicuous?” Added Zore

Or "We need to photosynthesize the situation before we proceed." Nuria raised a finger, imitating the Lord very badly. 

"Yes, my lord, I’m sure you’ll grow plenty of leaves that way.” she added 

“Or my favorite” joined in Sheranna that had been silent this whole time, making everyone turn to her and hold their breath

"The dinner was exquisite ! I especially enjoyed the lobster’s epidermis .”

Varric raised his tankard. “Now, how about a toast? To new friends, old friends, and the stories we’ll share tonight.”

The others raised their drinks, and with a clink of tankards, they settled in. Varric knew that despite the lighthearted atmosphere, Nuria was as sharp and focused as ever. He wouldn't be surprised like that time in Skyhold. But tonight, he wanted her to feel like just another patron in the Hanged Man, and he was going to make sure she enjoyed every moment of freedom.

-

Later the dancing started, with a bard playing lewd shanty’s to everyone’s delight. Apparently it was the season mariners came back home for a few months, before heading back to see. Rough men were huddled all around the place, strong arms and stronger worded tattoos on their back. They removed their shirts to confront tattoos. Dorian would have loved it.

The Hanged Man grew even more raucous, with laughter and the clinking of tankards filling the air. Varric watched as the women relaxed into the atmosphere, their initial wariness fading. Merrill was chatting animatedly with Zore, who seemed to be in her element, while Sheranna observed everything with tranquil eyes, clearly taking in the experience.

Nuria was more reserved than Varric had expected. Usually, she was the life of the party, but tonight she seemed content to let the others take the lead. She leaned back in her chair, sipping from her drink and watching her companions with a soft smile. Varric knew that look—she was enjoying herself, but she was also thinking, planning, likely waiting for the right moment to ask him about their duties. They were important, but just for a night? Maybe he might convince her to have fun.

As the music picked up, Merrill suddenly jumped to her feet, grabbing Zore’s hand. “Come on! Let’s dance!” she exclaimed, pulling her reluctant friend toward the makeshift dance floor in the center of the tavern.

Zore hesitated, glancing back at Sheranna, who shook her head with a shy smile. “I’ll stay here,” Sheranna said, her voice barely audible over the din.

“Oh, come on, Sheranna!” Merrill insisted, her enthusiasm infectious. “It’s just a bit of fun. You too, Ilia! You can’t just sit there all night!”

Ilia raised an eyebrow, a hint of her usual playful self emerging. “I don’t know, Merrill. I might embarrass myself.”

“Since when have you ever worried about that?” Varric teased, earning a smirk and a playful shove from her.

With a mock sigh, Ilia finally relented, standing up and joining Merrill and Zore. Sheranna, seeing the others getting into the spirit, hesitated for a moment longer before reluctantly rising from her seat.

As they moved to the dance floor, the music became even more lively, a fast-paced tune that had many of the patrons clapping along. Merrill twirled Zore around, laughing as they tried to keep up with the beat. Ilia, despite her earlier reservations, quickly fell into the rhythm, her movements fluid and practiced. Sheranna stayed near the edge, her steps small and unsure, but she smiled as she watched her friends. A patron accosted her and they started talking easily.

Varric couldn’t help but grin as he watched them. It was good to see them like this, especially Nuria. For all the weight she carried on her shoulders, she deserved a night to just be herself—or at least a version of herself that could let loose, even if only for a few hours.

The party reached its peak as the music became even more energetic, and soon the entire tavern was alive with the sound of clapping, stomping, and laughter. Varric watched as Nuria spun around with Merrill, her red hair catching the light, her laughter ringing out above the music. When the music finally slowed, and the dancers began to catch their breath, Varric saw his opportunity. She would have come to him eventually, might as well give her what she came for first, and leave her to enjoy the rest of the night. He made his way over to Nuria, who was still smiling, her cheeks flushed from the exertion.

“Ilia,” he said, leaning in close so that only she could hear him, “there’s something you need to know.”

Her expression sobered immediately, and she nodded, following him to a quieter corner of the tavern. Once they were away from prying ears, Varric spoke in a low voice.

“I’ve been digging into Corypheus’s contacts in the city,” he began, his tone serious. “Turns out, the bastard’s got more friends here than we thought. Some of the nobles are in his pocket, and they’ve been funneling resources to him. I’ve got names, places, the works.”

Ilia’s eyes narrowed, her earlier lightheartedness replaced by the sharp focus he was used to seeing in her. “Who?” she asked, her voice quiet but deadly.

Varric handed her a small piece of parchment. “I’ve written down everything I’ve found. Some of them are high up—people with influence. Up to the Viscount, even though I’m not sure about him yet. A contact also told us about a place. I found it, I think it would be worth it to explore it”

Ilia took the parchment, her expression unreadable as she put it in her robes. She looked back at Varric, her eyes determined. “Thank you, Varric. This is exactly what we needed.”

“Just doing my part,” he replied, his voice light despite the gravity of the situation. “But be careful. These people aren’t going to go down without a fight.”

She nodded, tucking the parchment away. “I know. But we can’t afford to let Corypheus get any stronger.”

They stood in silence for a moment, the weight of the information hanging between them. Then, Varric placed a hand on her shoulder, offering a small, reassuring smile.

“Now, why don’t we head back to the others?” he suggested. “You can think about all this tomorrow. Tonight, you’re just Ilia, remember?”

Nuria’s serious expression softened slightly, and she nodded. “You’re right. Tonight, I’m just Ilia.”

With that, they rejoined the group, where Merrill, Zore, and Sheranna were still catching their breath from the dancing. The music had started up again, slower this time, and the atmosphere in the tavern was warm and relaxed.

For the rest of the night, Nuria kept up the charade, enjoying the company of her friends and letting herself forget, if only for a few hours, the battles that awaited, the heartbreak that plagued her. Just a fun night with friends. 

-

INQUISITOR

As Nuria stumbled into the Fade, the familiar landscape shifting around her, she could feel the effects of the alcohol muddling her thoughts. The comforting warmth from the drinks she’d had at the Hanged Man had now turned into a foggy haze, making it difficult to focus. When Solas’ message reached her, warning her that unlocking blocked memories was an advanced technique, her immediate reaction was one of defiance. She was the Inquisitor, after all. She could handle anything.

“Of course it is,” she began, her words dripping with sarcastic pride. “Unlocking blocked memories is just so advanced! Couldn't possibly expect a little mortal like me to handle it!” 

The moment the words left her lips, she realized they’d come out more like a slurred jumble than the sharp retort she’d intended. Panic set in, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide. Had she just let something slip? Something about knowing he was immortal? Oh, this was bad.

Her mind raced as she tried to salvage the situation. “Work, head,” she muttered to herself, rubbing her temples as if that would help clear the alcohol-induced fog. After a few moments of concentration, she thought she had a coherent sentence ready to steer the conversation back on track.

“Can only spirits do it?” she asked, trying to sound as sober and serious as possible. But despite her best efforts, the question came out even more slurred than before, betraying her condition. It’s the best thing to throw him off her scent that she could think of at that moment. Surely, it must have worked. She’s the Inquisitor after all, there’s nothing she can’t do.

Her heart sank as she realized how ridiculous she must sound. What was she thinking? She’d have to come up with an excuse if Solas asked about this later—maybe just admit she was drunk. That wasn’t so bad, right? She would be embarrassed and will apologize. Yes.

As she tried to gather her thoughts, Curiosity whispered innocently, “Yes, you should ask him if he really fell for your brilliant ruse. It’s a great idea!”

She shook her head. No, subtlety. She had it in spades, asking that would have ruined everything. Her control over her presence in the Fade slipped, her emotions leaking all over the place, Curiosity asking questions non stop

“Ask him if he loves you still. It’s a BIG question, you’re very curious about it. We should ask!”

Nuria frowned, her brain struggling to keep up with the suggestion. “Should I?” she asked herself out loud, the question hanging in the air. Was it really a good idea? Or was it the alcohol talking? The lines between good ideas and bad ones were blurring rapidly, and she wasn’t sure she could trust her judgment right now.

Her cage appeared around her as an easy response to her question. Yes. Cage. Safety. She summoned a bed inside it and just threw herself on it. Curiosity stood outside, a small kitten with rabbit ears, glowing pink.

“You should still ask him! What would he reply?”

Nuria just groaned. She wanted to stop thinking, just…stop. She fell asleep in her dream too, as the landscape of her dreaming transformed into another tavern, the one in Skyhold, another day, the one time Solas danced with her there, keeping her close, with a wicked smile on his face, whispering in her ear and making her blush. That time he was the inhibited one, the one who had a few drinks.

-

The morning after, Nuria woke with a pounding headache, the kind that reminded her of why she hadn’t indulged in quite some time. Her memories of the previous night were hazy at best, but she hoped she hadn’t made a complete fool of herself. As she glanced around the room, she was relieved to find that she had at least had the forethought to safely stow away the parchment Varric had given her.

The room was quiet, with everyone still asleep except for Merrill. The smell wafting through the air was unmistakable—one of Dalish's most notorious brews: the sobering-up potion, affectionately known among her clan as the Wake Up Yuck.

Nuria couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of the potion, feeling a small pang of gratitude that Merrill had already been up and about. She shuffled into the other room, where she found Merrill busy with a variety of potions laid out on the table. The sight of the Wake Up Yuck was reassuring; it felt like home. Even within walls.

“Good morning,” Merrill greeted with a mischievous glint in her eye. “I thought you wouldn’t be up for a few more hours.”

Nuria took a seat at the table, her legs crossed as she sighed in relief. “I see you’ve prepared the Wake Up Yuck!” she said, her voice tinged with humor.

Merrill chuckled and shook her head. “Is that what your clan calls it? We just call it Regret.”

The two shared a laugh, the sound light and comforting. Merrill handed Nuria a glass of the foul-smelling potion. Nuria raised it in a mock toast. “To Regret, and great friends,” she said with a tired but genuine smile.

She took a hearty gulp, wincing as the potion’s awful taste hit her tongue. Her brother would have loved seeing her like that. She smiled, thinking about him. She missed him and the clan. As soon as she set the glass down, Merrill was there with a glass of water, which Nuria gratefully accepted.

“Thank you!” Nuria said, taking a long drink to wash away the lingering taste.

Once she had finished, Merrill’s eyes sparkled with curiosity. “So, are you still in love with him?”

The question caught Nuria off guard. She nearly choked on her water. “Oh no, what did I say?” she stammered, a wave of embarrassment washing over her.

Merrill chuckled. “You just mumbled his name when a guy tried to get your attention, and Zore…she didn’t say anything too specific, but you know, just wondering”

Nuria took a deep breath, trying to steady herself after the unexpected question. She didn’t mean Merrill to learn the truth, especially from her drunk self. She nodded slowly, feeling a mix of nostalgia and longing. She sighed.

Merrill’s expression softened. “We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I didn’t mean to be a gossip.”

“Thank you,” Nuria said, her voice steady but carrying a weight of gratitude. The topic of Solas was still a raw wound, one she wasn't sure would ever fully heal. She wondered if there would come a day when discussing him wouldn’t feel like a knife twisting in her heart.

She glanced at the parchment Varric had given her, lying on the table. With a sigh, she picked it up and opened it. The list of names connected to Corypheus was extensive, and while some were familiar from her previous meetings with Josephine, others were new and unfamiliar.

Nuria skimmed through Varric’s meticulous notes. Each name came with detailed annotations about their backgrounds, political ties, and their suspected involvement with Corypheus. She noticed that Lord Aldridge’s name was notably absent from the list. It made sense—Aldridge was an ally of the Inquisition, but she wasn’t fully sure he wouldn’t betray them. His lack of cunning was almost endearing, and he often stumbled over his words in conversations. But he was still a pompous new noble that really wanted to fit in and show his equals how the novelty of his status didn’t make him lesser than them.

“Looks like we’ve got some work ahead,” Nuria said, folding the parchment. “There are several names here that need further investigation.”

Merrill nodded, her curiosity piqued. “Yes, Varric’s given us quite a puzzle. Where do you think we should start?”

Nuria leaned back, rubbing her temples as she thought. “Cullen should be almost in Kirkwall by now. We can coordinate with him and dig into these contacts. Elves going around High Town asking questions would be really suspicious, we’ll have to coordinate with Aldridge too and just be in the same spaces as them.” She leans back on the wall from her chair, legs crossed. 

“That’s going to be fun! Meanwhile, we should keep an eye out for any suspicious activity around these people.” She took another gulp of Wake Up Regret and winced again, to Merrill’s delight. “Merrill, who do you usually sell your potions to?”

Her cheeks flushed slightly. “Oh, mostly human merchants who pretend they made them themselves.”

Nuria raised an eyebrow, but smiled. “So, not Hightown then. But you’re still in touch with Isabela, right?”

Merrill’s face fell a little. “Isabela would be a great ally, but she’s been having a rough time since… well, since Hawke’s… disappearance.”

That familiar weight settled in her chest, a heavy stone that seemed to grow with every mention of Hawke. It was difficult to put into words, that sense of loss and guilt. Hawke was left behind in the Fade—whether he had truly died or not was a question that haunted her. Nuria felt a sharp pang of regret, knowing it was her decision that had sealed his fate.

“I understand,” she said quietly, uncrossing her legs and rising from her seat.

Merrill hesitated, sensing the shift in Nuria’s mood. “Do you think Isabela would be willing to see me, eventually?” Nuria asked, her voice shaky.

Merrill bit her lip, thinking carefully before she answered. “I think... if you do, you should be prepared. And maybe bring a weapon.”

Nuria nodded. If she found it this hard to move on from Solas, she could only imagine the depth of Isabela’s grief. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to keep moving forward. She couldn’t afford to stand still. Not now.

“I’ll change, wake the others, and be right back,” Nuria said, already turning toward the door. “Varric mentioned he found one of Marcellus’ bases at the end of the parchment. We should explore that.”

Merrill chuckled softly. “You mentioned something like that last night, too.”

“Did I?” Nuria winced, embarrassed at the reminder of her drunken state. She quickly changed the subject. 

“We’re meeting Varric tonight.”Merrill replied with a knowing smile, 

“Good” said Nuria, leaving to avoid any more slip-ups.

-

Later, the group moves to have breakfast under the Vhenadahl. They sit in the stools scattered around the tree, or on its roots. Nuria bids it good morning by touching the trunk, silently acknowledging Grit. Arven is waiting with his usual basket of fruits, moving immediately to sit beside Zore as soon as they show up. The conversation is pleasant and easy as usual, and Arven teases the group, evidently hungover, and complains about not being invited, but with his usual roguish charm.

The group chuckles at his antics, now used to his presence and his relentless pursuit of Zore. He was slowly winning her over, one joke at a time. The blonde would never admit it though. While they were talking Merrill spotted Talia. Merrill went to her and the two talked a bit, before both women came over. Talia sat with them, shooting an aggressive look at Nuria. Nuria tried one of her patented sweet as sugar smiles, and greeted her with a 

“Good morning!” that only seemed to irritate her further

"Hello," Talia responded, her voice laced with weary resignation. She turned away from Nuria to the others, still bent on hating her. Her beauty was momentarily overshadowed by her distress, her beautiful luscious curls sitting on a face marked by lack of sleep and grief.

Nuria, moved by the sight, offered her concern. "Have you heard any news about your sister?"

Talia’s expression tightened, a flash of irritation crossing her face. "No, nothing since she was taken. It’s been days, and the silence is unbearable."

Nuria's heart ached at the sight of Talia's struggle. “I’m truly sorry. I hope for her safe return.” She couldn’t say that she suspected that the survivor Solas mentioned could be her sister, but she had hoped that Laria would be returned once Cullen and the envoy reached Skyhold.

Nuria, hoping to bridge the gap between them, continued, “If there’s anything I can do—”

Talia cut her off sharply, her voice tinged with a mixture of frustration and exhaustion. “You don’t need to pretend to be concerned. We’ve barely exchanged words before this. Why would you suddenly be interested in my problems?”

Nuria’s brow furrowed, taken aback by Talia's sharp tone. She hadn’t expected such hostility. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I genuinely wanted to offer my support.”

Talia’s gaze softened slightly, though a trace of distrust remained. “I appreciate the sentiment, but in times like these, trust is a luxury. Everyone seems eager to offer help, but how often does it actually make a difference?”

Nuria nodded, her understanding clear. “I’m just a servant, and I know I may not offer much. But if you—”

Talia raised a hand to silence her, though her tone was gentler now. “Just shush, would you? Don’t you have children to teach, or some other charity work to show that you’re better than everyone else?”

The group around the Vhenadahl tree fell into an awkward silence as Talia's sharp words lingered in the air. Zore shifted uncomfortably on the roots, eyes blazing and ready to jump Talia, while Arven found himself momentarily at a loss for words. Merrill's usual cheer dimmed, and she glanced between Nuria and Talia with concern.

Nuria froze in place, feeling a sting. She had only wanted to help, but it seemed Talia was bent on disliking her. For a moment, she considered excusing herself, but something in her refused to back down. There was a fire in her, a stubbornness that wouldn’t let her simply walk away.

Instead, she took a deep breath and tried again, her voice softer this time. "I know I’m just an outsider here, and I may not have the right words to say. But I know what it’s like to lose someone close, to feel powerless when they’re gone. If there’s anything—anything at all—that I can do, please, let me try."

Talia looked at her, the irritation still flickering in her eyes, but now mixed with something else—a hint of surprise, maybe even confusion. She had expected condescension or hollow platitudes, but Nuria’s words held sincerity.

"You really don’t give up, do you?" Talia muttered, her voice losing some of its earlier bite. She looked down, tracing the edges of a leaf on the ground with her boot.

Nuria smiled faintly, sensing a crack in Talia’s hard exterior. "I guess I’m just stubborn like that," she said, trying to lighten the mood. "Or maybe I’m just really bad at knowing when to leave well enough alone."

With a final, tired nod, Talia stood and walked down the alley, her footsteps echoing softly against the cobblestones. Nuria watched her go, feeling a pang of sympathy and frustration. 

As Talia disappeared down the alley, her form swallowed by the shadows, the group exchanged glances. The tension that had built during the conversation slowly dissipated, but an air of confusion and curiosity lingered. Zore leaned back against the tree, her arms crossed as she watched Nuria’s expression shift from concern to quiet contemplation.

Zore was the first to speak, his tone light but laced with curiosity. "What’s her deal, anyway? She’s been like that since the first time you met. It’s like she’s got a personal grudge against you."

Nuria shook her head, still staring down the path where Talia had gone. "I’m not sure," she admitted, her voice thoughtful. "It’s more than just being guarded. There’s something deeper there, but I can’t quite put my finger on it."

Sheranna, who had been quietly observing the exchange, finally spoke up. Her voice was soft, tinged with empathy. "Maybe it’s not really about you, Nuria. Sometimes, when people are hurting, they lash out at those who try to help. It’s easier to push people away than to let them in, especially when you’re afraid."

"But afraid of what?" Arven asked, genuinely curious.

Sheranna frowned, her expression thoughtful. "She’s probably afraid—afraid of being disappointed, of getting her hopes up and then having them dashed. Afraid of losing the only family she has left If her sister is missing, she’s likely feeling desperate and helpless. That kind of fear can make you see enemies where there are none."

Nuria nodded slowly, absorbing Sheranna’s words. "Maybe you’re right. I just wonder why she decided that I specifically am the enemy from the moment she first set eyes on me.” She sighed, standing up and carefully lifting a satchel she’d left on the floor. 

"I’ll just have to try and get on her good side, I guess," she said, more to herself than anyone else. "Anyway, I need to get these potions to Lyna and her family." She offered a warm smile to the group, bidding them goodbye before heading out.

-

As Nuria made her way to Lyna’s modest home, she kept thinking about Talia. She wasn’t used to people disliking her outright, especially not without a reason she could understand.

When she arrived, Nuria knocked softly on the door. Ava answered, her wide eyes filled with worry. The atmosphere inside was heavy with exhaustion. Lyna was slumped on a worn couch, looking fatigued and pale. Without hesitation, Nuria moved to her side, offering a soothing potion and a piece of bread to help her regain some strength.

“Thank you,” Lyna murmured, her voice weak but grateful. She managed a small smile as she took the potion, drinking it slowly.

Nuria turned her attention to Ava, who was watching her sister with concern. Wanting to lighten the mood, Nuria began to weave a gentle tale from her travels, carefully avoiding the darker aspects of her journey. 

She spoke of the simple wonders she had encountered—majestic waterfalls that seemed to sing as the water cascaded down, the serene sight of hallas migrating through sun-dappled forests, and the crystal-clear pools of water where she had bathed, feeling the cool, refreshing embrace of nature. As she spoke, Nuria infused her words with a soft, calming tone, painting vivid pictures of peaceful landscapes.

Ava’s expression gradually softened, her distress fading as she became absorbed in the story. Even Lyna seemed to relax, her color slowly returning as the soothing effects of the potion and the bread took hold.

For a brief moment, the weight of their struggles lifted, replaced by the gentle comfort of Nuria’s words. The room, became a small haven of calm, where worries could be momentarily forgotten.

Lyna, testing her swollen feet and speaking with a resigned tone, said, “I have work in a while”

“Work?” Nuria asked, incredulous.

“My job pays well for an elf.” offered Lyna

Nuria bit her lip, her concern growing. She knew she could have easily provided Lyna with enough coin to alleviate her burdens, but as a servant, she couldn’t flaunt money she wasn’t supposed to have.

“Do you have any skills you can offer while sitting?” Nuria asked, hoping to find a solution.

Lyna’s response was sharp, her voice edged with something unspoken. “Thank you, but my job pays well, and my masters… they really like me.” There was a tension beneath her words, a strain that didn’t match her attempt at reassurance. Either she was proud of her own job or there was something else.

Nuria, sensing the unease and wanting to investigate further, gently offered, “Maybe Ava could help you with your tasks? It’s normal for children her age to start lending a hand.”

“No!” Lyna’s reaction was immediate, almost frantic. Lyna shook her head violently, only to make a strained sound when she tried to move.

Before Nuria could process Lyna’s outburst, the room suddenly shifted. The floor was covered in a slick sheet of ice, spreading rapidly from where Ava stood. The young girl’s eyes widened in terror, her small frame trembling.

“I’m sorry,” Ava whispered, her voice shaking as she looked at her sister, fear and guilt etched on her face.

Nuria’s heart skipped a beat as the realization hit her—Ava was a mage. She locked eyes with the panicked girl, but before she could respond, Lyna grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her to face her, desperation pouring from her.

“You can’t tell anyone!” Lyna’s voice was a frantic whisper, her grip tight. “Please, you mustn’t. They’ll take her away if they find out.”

Lyna’s eyes were wide open, Ava was starting to cry in the background, and the home was chaotic once again. Nuria placed a hand gently on one of Lyna’s, still grabbing tightly at her shoulder, and responded with a calm, reassuring smile. “I won’t.”

Lyna blinked, taken aback by Nuria’s unexpected calmness. Suspicion flickered in her eyes, and she loosened her grip slightly. Nuria was about to take a risk, exposing herself like she shouldn’t. It would be better for the mission if she didn’t, safer, but…

“I won’t tell if you don’t,” Nuria continued softly, raising one hand and summoning a small, ethereal wolf to dance upon her palm, weaving the spell with ease, the familiarity of the cool sensation of the spell gentle against her skin.

Lyna gasped, her eyes widening as she let go of Nuria. “You’re a—”

“Shhh,” Nuria hushed her, raising her other hand to create a sound ward around them, ensuring their conversation stayed private. The walls shimmered briefly before returning to normal.

The situation was chaotic and getting worse at every turn. She had to take control. She smiled reassuringly to both, confident and projecting calm. Lyna was stunned, half slumped on the couch and eyes still wide in surprise. Ava wasn’t crying anymore, and looked at the still dancing wolf on her hand with awe, curiosity and a bit of fear. People in the cities are trained to be scared of mages from birth. Even having one in the house isn’t enough to dispel the fear surrounding them.

“I can help” she says sweetly towards Lyna. After a few more moments of shock, the girl straightens on the couch and looks at her little sister, then Nuria. Her expression moves from shock to confusion.

“Why would you?” Lyna asks with resignation.

“Because she deserves a chance at a real life” It’s simple as that. Lyna nods.

The tension in the room began to dissipate, and Nuria moved towards Ava, and knelt beside her. The girl was still staring at the tiny wolf with astonished eyes. The fear that had gripped the room slowly ebbed away, replaced by a sense of wonder.

“Would you like to learn this?” Nuria asked gently, her voice warm and inviting.

Ava’s eyes flickered with curiosity, the fear melting away as she nodded slightly, still captivated by the small creature dancing on Nuria’s palm.

“Yes,” Ava whispered, her voice filled with awe. “I’d like to learn.”

Nuria’s smile was warm and reassuring. “Magic is indeed beautiful, but it’s also powerful. It is a gift and a responsibility. Learning to control it’s the most important thing you’ll ever learn. It will keep you and your family safe, and your abilities a secret.”

Lyna, still visibly shaken, watched with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. Her eyes were red as she began to cry, and she looked utterly spent. The realization that Ava could learn to harness her magic under Nuria’s guidance was a sliver of hope amid her fears.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Lyna admitted in a choked voice. “I was scared for Ava, and for what might happen if her magic was discovered. It started a few months ago, we…we thought it would go away eventually”

Nuria nodded sympathetically. “I understand. It’s a difficult situation. But we’ll work together to keep Ava safe and help her learn to control her abilities. That’s what matters now.”

She turned back to Ava, her expression softening. “We’ll start with some simple exercises to help you control yourself when your magic just wants to come out and play. Are you ready?”

Ava nodded eagerly, her earlier fear replaced by excitement. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Nuria began with basic breathing exercises, demonstrating how to channel and focus magical energy. 

“Breathing helps you move magic through your body. In and out.” She demonstrates breathing through her diaphragm. She points at it “You have to feel it here”

She guided Ava through the initial steps of control, her voice gentle and patient. The ice that had previously flooded the floor receded, much to Ava’s satisfaction.

“See. Emotions and magick are intrinsically connected” The girl looked at her with wide eye “There’s a strong connection between emotions and magic, just like you have with your sister” better. She’ll have to focus on language, keep it simple.

As Ava practiced, Lyna watched with a mixture of relief and curiosity. 

“Thank you, Nuria,” Lyna said quietly, her voice filled with sincere gratitude. “I don’t know what we would have done without your help.”

Nuria glanced at her, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s my pleasure. Just remember to keep Ava’s training discreet. We need to protect her from those who might not understand or accept her abilities.”

Lyna nodded, her expression a mix of resolve and lingering fear. “We will. I’ll do everything I can to keep her safe.”

Nuria rose to her feet and addressed Ava once more. “You’re doing great so far. Let’s keep practicing and make sure you’re comfortable with the basics. It’s important to build a strong foundation.”

As they continued, the atmosphere in the room began to shift from one of dread to cautious hope. Nuria’s guidance and Ava’s budding control over her magic provided a glimmer of optimism in an otherwise uncertain situation.

As Nuria prepared to leave, she gave Ava a final encouraging smile. “Remember, I’ll be here to help you whenever you need it. Just keep practicing, and don’t be afraid to reach out if you have any questions.”

Ava beamed with newfound confidence. “I will. Thank you, Nuria.”

Nuria turned to Lyna one last time. “Take care of yourselves. I’ll check in again soon to see how things are going.”

With that, she left the small home, her thoughts already turning to the next steps. She needed to be careful in managing this situation, ensuring that Ava’s magic remained a secret while providing the necessary support. She rubbed her temples. As she walked away, she felt happy. If she could teach Ava to harness her abilities, that small family had a chance. However she had spent all the free time she could spare teaching the little girl, and she had no time to investigate. The realization quickly erased her smile. Her duties as the Inquisitor need to come first. She was happy to help, but she was taking on too much. She sighed, heading to Merrill’s home. She could ask her to teach Ava as well

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

The night draped the docks in the soft light of a crescent moon, the air cool and still, carrying the scent of saltwater and the faint aroma of fish, piss and decay. 

From their hidden vantage point on a nearby rooftop, the Inquisitor and Sheranna lay low, their eyes scanning the activity below. It was their first mission together alone, and while they had moments of connections before, this was the first time they’d worked as a team alone, without Zore or Merrill. Nuria was curious, not just about the mission but about the woman beside her. She fully expected one of Leliana’s spies to be quiet and reserved, but she wanted to learn more. The glimpses that she had now and then just made her more curious about her. Sheranna, was comfortable in the silence, watching and taking notes on the movements of the guards. They had been taking turns noting anything that might be useful. Number of people, which ones were recurrent, times of the week and the night when exchanges occurred. They had learned a bit about the dock, but weren’t sure about delving in just yet.

After what felt like hours of watching, the Inquisitor decided to break the silence. “You’ve been with Leliana for a long time, haven’t you?” she asked, her voice low enough to be heard only by the person next to her. The casual tone was a deliberate choice—an invitation, not an interrogation.

Sheranna glanced at her, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “Long enough,” she replied, her voice as quiet as the night around them. “Since before the Inquisition, actually. I was one of her eyes and ears during the events in Kirkwall.”

Nuria nodded, remembering the horror stories she heard. “I imagine you’ve seen a lot, then. Not just here, but everywhere the Inquisition has taken you.”

Sheranna’s gaze drifted back to the docks, where the workers were still moving crates under the watchful eye of the overseer. “Yes, I’ve seen more than I ever thought I would. More than I ever wanted to, sometimes.”

The Inquisitor leaned back slightly, resting her elbows on the edge of the roof. “And yet, you’re still here. Still doing what you do. I have to wonder why.”

Sheranna hesitated, her fingers tapping lightly on the hilt of the sword at her side. “Leliana’s missions aren’t for the faint of heart,” she admitted. “But I believe in what we’re doing.” She paused, looked Nuria straight in the eye and added “I believe in you.”

Nuria smiled at that. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

Sheranna chuckled softly, the sound almost lost in the night. “At first I didn’t. I really thought you were Leliana’s creature, good as a stand-in, nothing more. But you’ve got everyone fooled, don’t you?” Sheranna didn’t hold back. “You can let it out, you know? You don’t need to be Miss Perfection at all times”

Nuria let that sink in for a moment, turned away, feeling just a bit more pressure on her shoulders. Change topic. She didn’t know what she’s asking. “Do you ever regret it?” she asked quietly. “All the things you’ve had to do, the choices you’ve had to make?”

Sheranna was silent for a long time, her eyes fixed on the shadowy figures below. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, more introspective. “I don’t know if regret is the right word. I’ve done things that haunt me, sure. But we’re all haunted by something, aren’t we? And we keep going because we have to. Because there’s something worth fighting for.”

Nuria nodded, understanding all too well. “You’re right about that. I think that’s what keeps us all going, in the end.”

They fell into a comfortable silence, the tension of the mission easing slightly as they shared this rare moment of connection, just the two of them. It was a small thing, but in a world where trust was a precious commodity, it mattered.

“So,” Nuria said after a while, a playful note creeping into her voice, “What do you do when you’re not skulking around in the shadows, spying on people?”

Sheranna laughed softly, the sound a surprising contrast to her usual reserved demeanor. “Not much of that lately, I’m afraid. But I do enjoy going to the Chantry when I can find the time. And sometimes, a good game of cards with the others.”

“Then you should take me sometimes, I promised someone I would learn more about the Maker.” Sheranna turned to her wide eyed for a moment, then went back to the docks. “And” Nuria offered with a small smile. “You should know, I’m terrible at cards.”

“Then we’ll have to play sometime,” Sheranna said, her tone light, but with a hint of sincerity. “I could use an easy win.”

Nuria laughed, feeling the bond between them strengthen in that moment. “Deal. But only if you promise not to go easy on me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sheranna replied, her smile genuine.

They watched in silence for a few more minutes, as the workers continued their task, moving the crates with an efficiency that spoke of practice and precision. The Inquisitor’s mind raced, considering their options. They could wait for the workers to leave and try to intercept the shipment, but that carried the risk of the goods being moved before they had a chance to act. On the other hand, making a move now could alert Marcellus’ men and ruin their chance to follow the trail back to its source.

“We need to know what’s in those crates,” the Inquisitor said finally, her voice firm. “But we can’t risk going in blind. We’ll wait until they start moving the shipment. If they take it to another location, we follow. If not…” She trailed off, leaving the rest unsaid.

Sheranna nodded in agreement. “And if we’re lucky, maybe we’ll get a chance to take out that overseer. He looks like he knows more than he should.”

The minutes ticked by slowly, each one stretching into what felt like an eternity as they watched the scene unfold below. The workers finished unloading the crates and began to stack them onto a waiting cart, their movements still careful, still too precise. The overseer remained in place, his eyes scanning the docks, as if searching for any sign of trouble.

Then, just as the Inquisitor was beginning to wonder if their patience would pay off, the overseer made a sharp gesture, and the workers stopped what they were doing. The Inquisitor tensed, her hand unconsciously gripping the edge of the rooftop as she watched the overseer stride towards the cart. He exchanged a few terse words with one of the workers before reaching into his coat and pulling out a small, glowing vial.

“Red lyrium,” she breathed, her eyes narrowing as the overseer handed the vial to the worker. The man took it with a nod, carefully placing it into one of the crates.

Sheranna’s hand tightened on her dagger. “We have our proof. But if they’re packing it away, they’re getting ready to move it.”

The Inquisitor moved a hand in front of Sheranna “Or they’re using the place as a deposit. We haven’t seen anyone moving big quantities so far” She pauses, looking at the people slowly leaving “Let’s observe some more, we don’t won’t to end up in a big fight and alert Marcellus” Sheranna looked at her and nodded.

“I have an idea to take it all down and make it look like an accident, but we have to make sure to pick the right moment”

Sheranna nods, and they spend a few more hours observing, before retiring. The plan was forming, they just needed to be patient to get to the best outcome.

-

SOLAS

Solas settled into the serene ambiance of his private dwelling in the Fade. After managing his agents and overseeing his schemes, he finally had a moment to himself. The quiet was a welcome reprieve, allowing him to focus on her messages. He chose that moment purposefully. He didn’t wish for his agents to hear her messages, those were a private pleasure he wanted for himself.

When he started listening to her message, he chuckled at the realization that she was drunk. She never allowed herself to be that intoxicated in his experience, and he could fully imagine her in the Fade, ranting about what he kept from her, sitting, legs crossed, her lovely cheeks colored with a blush that touched the tips of her ears. He listened intently as Nuria’s voice drifted through the realm, her sarcastic response about the complexity of unlocking blocked memories was amusing.

But when she casually alluded to his immortality his blood ran cold. He knew she was sharp, far sharper than she let on. But the way she spoke, the words she used…Solas’ heart raced. How much did she know? She had been a hair away from figuring out that he is an ancient elf for a time, but the idea that she might have figured out that she might soon connect the dots to Fen’Harel—was terrifying. If she knew the truth, everything would be over. And she, she would stand against him. And the thought of having to fight her, of killing her, was something he couldn’t bear. He would have to imprison her, but how could he make her a prisoner? Where would he keep her? And how would he keep her from fighting back and free herself without hurting her?

“The jaws of the wolf are closing once again, and this time, they’re going to tear her throat out. How does it feel to be the end of the only one you truly loved, Fen’Harel?” Fear was looming around him.

Before he could process the full extent of his panic, her voice cut through his spiraling thoughts again, this time softer, but no less alarming. “Can only spirits do it?”

Solas froze. It wasn’t just a question; it was confirmation. She knew. Maybe she didn’t know everything, but she knew enough. That was just a red herring. A poorly executed one. At least she was drunk—careless, unguarded. He could have used that to his advantage, to understand what she truly knew. 

“What spell will you use to cut her down? Fire, to hear her sweet voice turn into incoherent screams? Electricity, to see her beautiful eyes pop out of her head? Or maybe cold, so she can feel the coldness of the monster she loves as she dies?” Fear was circling closer

The message was sent that night, he had time. His mind raced, desperately searching for a way to deflect, to steer her away from the dangerous path she was heading down. He had to go to her.

“Off to kill her?” asked Fear, before Solas left.

Solas moved without thinking, his heart pounding as he reached her in the Fade for the first time since he left Skyhold. He didn't know what he might find, wasn’t thinking clearly, but the taste of danger spurred him forward. When he finally reached her, she was simply sleeping, curled up in a bed within the confines of her protective cage. The sight of her, so fragile in her drunken state, made something in him ache. He hadn’t seen her this vulnerable in a long time. Relief washed over him, but it was tinged with the bittersweet knowledge that even if she was asleep in that moment, nothing had changed. His secret was in danger, and by extension, her. 

The sound of her soft laugh echoing through the Fade pulled him back to another time, another night, that she was replaying around herself. He remembered it vividly.

-

THE PAST

He was the intoxicated one.

Empress Celene had sent a gift to Skyhold—a selection of fine wines, a gesture meant to maintain the delicate balance between Orlais and the Inquisition. The gesture had been more than just a token of goodwill; it was a subtle message. The wines consisted exclusively of his favorites from their night in Halamshiral, a reminder that Celene knew more than she let on, that she was aware of his relationship with the Inquisitor. It was a small card in the grand game she played, but a card nonetheless. She could dig as deep as she wanted, but all she would find was that the Inquisitor loved a nobody. It was just to show that if she chose to move against Celine, Celine would bite back. A sweet invitation to keep things friendly, or else.

In the War Room, as they discussed the implications, Nuria had dismissed the threat with a wave of her hand. 

“If this is the worst she has on me we should take this as good news. It means that if she wants to build up a scandal, she’ll have to work and concoct one out of nothing.” She lowered her hand, a defiant smile crossing her face

“If Celene wants to make my affairs public she has my blessing, then maybe this whole New Bride of The Maker nonsense will finally end”

That night, in a quiet act of defiance against Celene and the ever-watchful eyes of her spies, Nuria decided they would consume the wine in a grand celebration at the Tavern. She wanted to show that she was unbothered, that her private life was not a weapon to be used against her. Solas observed as she turned that attempt to intimidate her into a statement against the person that threatened her. She invited everyone to wear their finest, as if mocking the courtly pretenses of Halamshiral.

Solas joined the revelry, letting her defiance fuel his own. He chose an outfit that Dorian had once given him, a garment styled in Orlesian fashion but tailored in colors that matched hers. He had refused to wear it in Halamshiral when he gave him the gift, not wanting to play into the chaos, but that night, with Nuria leading the charge, he embraced the role. It was something he would have done when he was younger, just laugh in the face of power, showing that one could choose not to care.

She had worn the same dress she had worn at Halamshiral, a gown that was simple yet striking. Emerald green, with a straight cut that hugged her figure to the waist, the dress had off-the-shoulder sleeves that were pointed at the ends, a subtle nod to Elvhen fashion.  A delicate silver belt adorned her waist, cascading down to her knees. It was part of the system that allowed her to tie it up for battle. The silver and black accents on the dress drew the eye to all the right places, enhancing her beauty. But it was the headdress, designed to resemble Halla horns, that truly made her stand out. It was a bold declaration: I know you consider me prey in the Game. That night in Halamshiral, she had shown them she was anything but. Even in Skyhold, far from the courts of Orlais, she sent the same message: she will not bend.

When they entered the Tavern, Sera had been at the door, taking it upon herself to announce each guest with her own unique flair. “And here we have Her Elfy Inquisitorialness, Nuria Lavellan, and her Official Favorite Egg, Solas, the Elfiest Elf That Ever Elfed!”

The room erupted in laughter, and even Solas found himself chuckling. He offered a playful courtly bow to Nuria, who returned it with a graceful curtsy. It was the closest they had ever come to making their relationship public, a shared moment of defiance and camaraderie.

As the night wore on, and the wine flowed freely, Solas watched her from across the room. She was radiant, laughing and dancing, her every movement a quiet rebellion against the expectations of those who sought to control her. The bard had just begun a slower tune, and Solas noticed Cullen awkwardly gathering the courage to ask her to dance.

Solas acted before he could think, crossing the room in a few swift steps. “Vhenan,” he said softly, bowing and offering his hand. Nuria’s eyes widened in surprise, a blush coloring her cheeks. He never called her his heart in public, and in normal circumstances, would be happy just watch her dance, enjoying the looks she would throw in his direction and the time she reserved just to chat with him.

Nuria looked up, her eyes wide with surprise, and for a moment, she seemed to hesitate. But as the soft blush spread across her cheeks, and she placed her hand in his, her touch sending a thrill through him. He pulled her close, his hand resting at the small of her back as he guided her into the slow, intimate dance.

The world around them faded as they moved together, the music a gentle backdrop to the quiet tension between them. Solas held her closer than he ever had before in public, the warmth of her body against his igniting something deep within him. The wine, coupled with the electric thrill of having her so close, emboldened him in a way he hadn't anticipated.

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. 

“You are more than a match for any of them,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her skin, making her shiver softly. He smiled. It was a marvel the effect he had on her, a marvel he never had enough of. “The Empress, the Game, all of it—they’re nothing compared to you. You outshine them all.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide with a mixture of surprise and something else—desire, perhaps? He saw the way her breath hitched, felt her hand tighten slightly in his. It was all the encouragement he needed. Then Nuria chuckled softly, her breath tickling his neck as she responded. “Is that your way of saying you’re envious of my defiance?” Her tone was playful, but there was an undercurrent of something more intimate, a silent challenge for him to flirt with her, out there in public, as the eyes of half of Skyhold were on them.

Solas smiled against her skin, his lips brushing lightly as he spoke. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’m merely captivated by how effortlessly you make defiance look like grace.” He pulled her a little closer, feeling the heat of her body against his, the rhythm of the music syncing with the pounding of his heart.

Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him, her left hand brushing softly on the nape of his neck, making the hair stand out and his sense of decency, of anything but her touch fly out of the window. When she replied her voice was a sultry murmur, her smile seductive and mischievous, her eyes sparkling with desire for him. “You know, you’re not so bad yourself when it comes to defying expectations.” She tightened her grip on his shoulder, her fingers tracing delicate patterns through the fabric of his tunic. “I could get used to this kind of rebellion.”

Their bodies moved in sync with the music, every step and sway an exploration of unspoken, unfulfilled desires. Solas let his hands drift to her waist, his touch both firm and gentle, savoring the closeness between them. She shivered again under his touch, and the temptation to drop the dance and just touch her until she gasped softly became almost unbearable. His lips brushed against her ear again as he whispered, “If this is rebellion, then I’m more than willing to indulge in it.”

Nuria had to suppress a gasp at the touch of his lips and the intensity in his voice. She tilted her head back slightly, allowing her hair to cascade down her shoulders. “So this is how the enigma falls? I should get you to drink daily then”

He guided her in a slow, fluid motion, their steps synchronized perfectly. “Perhaps,” he whispered, “some secrets are best left uncovered, especially when they might only deepen the mystery.” he had to deflect somehow, or he could really lose his sense, scoop her up and just Fade step to the nearest bed.

But Nuria had different ideas. When her gaze met his, her expression was a blend of challenge and warmth. “Or maybe,” she countered, her fingers tracing delicate patterns on the nape of his neck, “some mysteries are worth unraveling, especially when they come with such tempting promises.”

Solas’s breath caught at her words, his pulse quickening. Dangerous, tempting creature. She was glowing in the satisfaction of seeing him falter, made plaible by her hands and words. He adores her for challenging him. He pressed closer, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “If you’re willing to take that risk, I’m more than happy to make it worth your while.”

But he wanted so much more than that simple sentence could encompass. His eyes burned in hers with the intensity of his lust and she reveled in it. Dangerous, tempting creature.

-

That was one of the rare nights he spent willingly away from her. If he didn’t, he would have given in to their desires.

Curiosity had been dancing around the cage, a fully formed giraffe with excessively long legs of the same emerald green of their clothes that night. As it fell, it asked Solaspq

“Does she still love me? Well, she wonders the same! You should tell her, since she won’t tell you” the giraffe started rolling around the perimeter of the cage. Quite the spectacle.

For a while he didn’t dare move. Every step he took put her closer to the truth, closer to his secrets. And yet…

He walked towards her, each step measured, as if crossing an invisible threshold that separated the present from a memory he cherished more than his current reality. The room was bathed in the soft glow of the lanterns of Skyhold, the kind of light that made everything seem both real and ethereal at the same time. The dancers disappeared through her cage, to reappear once they stepped out of it. She had summoned this place from the depths of her heart, and he couldn't help but marvel at how every detail was perfect—down to their scents that clung to the sheets, the very same as when they had last been together.

The bed before him was theirs in almost every way that mattered. It was the bed they had shared—during nights where they had shed not just their clothes, but also their masks, their fears, and their burdens. He had spent more time in that bed than in his own at Skyhold, a fact that had once amused him but now filled him with a quiet, aching sorrow. He would never sleep in that bed again.

The first night had been an accident, a convergence of need and circumstance.  It was a beginning neither of them had expected.

The last night had been different—there had been no more pretenses. By then, he had a change of night clothes in a small compartment hidden under the divan. It was a gesture that had felt strangely domestic, almost absurd given the lives they led, but it had been their reality. They had moved through the ritual of undressing, slipping under the covers, and holding each other as if it were the most natural thing in the world. And for them, it had been. In those moments, the weight of their responsibilities had melted away, leaving only the two of them, together.

He paused at the foot of the bed, just watching her for a moment. She was sleeping on her side, hugging a pillow, her face partially covered by her hair, a lovely draped of long, black silk that partially covered her features. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the only movement in the otherwise still room. She looked so peaceful, so vulnerable in sleep. It was a side of her that few ever saw, the fierce Inquisitor reduced to this quiet, tender state. The sight stirred something deep within him—a mix of protectiveness and longing that he could never fully express.

Slowly, he moved to the edge of the bed and sat down, careful not to jostle her. The mattress dipped slightly under his weight, and she stirred, her brow furrowing for a brief moment before settling back into sleep. He hesitated, his hand hovering above her face, as if touching her would shatter the fragile tranquility of the moment. But he couldn’t resist the urge to be closer to her.

It had been so long since he saw her. Even in the Fade, looking at her shook him. Even with her face scrunched against the pillow, seeing her sleeping expression calmed him and excited him all at once. She always looked younger without the weight of it all on her shoulders, relaxed and herself in a way she rarely allowed herself when awake. If she didn’t work or help anyone she felt guilty, and that stirred her to overwork herself, shouldering too much. Did she lose more weight? He wasn’t sure in that amass of blankets and cloth. 

That was concerning, she forgot to eat when she was stressed, how was she really doing in Kirkwall? Gently, he let his fingers graze her cheek, tracing the familiar contours of her face. Her skin was soft and warm, a stark contrast to the cold nights they had spent apart. He caressed her face with the lightest touch, skin tingling, memorizing every curve and line once again. Everything about her was soft and delicate. He would think back on this when he would draw her. It was right then, when she was unaware, that he allowed himself to truly feel the depth of his feelings for her.

He had spent the last two months denying them, downplaying them, going in an endless cycle of longing, denial and desperation. He was way too old to try and keep fooling himself like that. He loved her. Truly loved her, it was as simple as that.

She shifted slightly, turning her head into his hand, seeking his touch even in sleep. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips, an expression of warmth that he allowed only in these private moments. It was no use denying his feelings anymore. She smiled happily in his palm. How could he not? She was just so lovely in everything she did, everything she was. One look at her and he had forgotten all the fears and anxiety that plagued him just a moment before seeing her. He leaned in closer, his breath brushing against her ear as he whispered a single word, so softly that it was almost lost in the stillness of the room.

“Always.”

For a moment, he stayed there, just watching her sleep, his hand resting lightly against her cheek. He wished he could freeze time, to stay in this moment where everything was simple, where the world outside didn’t matter. But he knew it was a fleeting wish, one that could never be granted. With a quiet sigh, he withdrew his hand, though the ache of leaving her was immediate and sharp. She whimpered in her sleep.

That single word was a promise and a sentence, for both of them. 

Chapter Text

INQUISITOR

Nuria stood at the edge of the docks, her eyes scanning the dimly lit warehouse that loomed ahead. The evening had settled into a foggy haze, giving the area an eerie, desolate feel. Varric, Zore, and Sheranna flanked her, each of them silent as they surveyed their target.

The warehouse was a squat, unremarkable building tucked away among other similar structures, its utilitarian facade belying the dangerous secrets it housed. Nuria glanced at the parchment Varric had handed her earlier, the scribbled notes confirming the warehouse’s role in Marcellus’s drug operation. This was their chance to hit him where it hurt.

Varric’s eyes were narrowed with calculation as he scanned the building. “So, we’re sure this place doesn’t have any fancy wards or runes protecting it?”

Nuria nodded, her tone steady. “I’ve checked. Marcellus was either too arrogant to worry about such things or simply underestimated the need for protection. Either way, it’s an oversight we can exploit.”

Sheranna, her eyes sharp and watchful, glanced around. “We’ll need to be quick about this. If the fire’s too controlled, it might raise suspicion. We want it to look like a typical dockside blaze.”

Zore, leaning against a nearby crate, was readying a bundle of incendiary materials. “You’ve got a plan for this?”

Nuria reached into her bag and pulled out several flammable vials, their contents sloshing ominously. “I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. We just need to make sure the fire spreads and engulfs the whole place.”

The group moved into position, each member familiar with their role. Varric positioned himself strategically, his crossbow ready in case of any unexpected interruptions. Sheranna and Zore began setting up a distraction, their movements precise and purposeful.

Nuria approached the side of the warehouse, her hands deftly working to plant small incendiary devices in key locations. She made sure to cover her tracks, hiding the devices where they wouldn’t be easily discovered. The vials she chose look identical to the lyrium vials she saw them using, it would be easy to assume the workers indulged a bit.

As she worked, the sound of the nearby waves crashing against the docks provided a soothing backdrop, masking the faint rustling of her movements. Once she was satisfied with the placement of the devices, she signaled to her team.

“Time to light it up,” she whispered, her voice carrying the weight of their mission.

Zore struck a match and carefully lit the fuses on the devices. As the flames began to flicker to life, Nuria stepped back, her heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension.

The fire caught quickly, spreading through the warehouse’s dry, wooden structure. Flames danced and crackled, filling the air with the pungent smell of burning timber and chemicals. The warehouse, once a hub of Marcellus’s illicit activities, was now consumed by a raging inferno.

Nuria and her team watched from a safe distance, their faces illuminated by the orange glow of the fire. The scene was chaotic yet controlled, a perfect mimicry of a typical dockside fire.

As the fire roared, Varric smirked, his expression a mix of satisfaction and relief. “Well, that should get Marcellus’s attention.”

Nuria exhaled, the tension slowly ebbing away. “Let’s hope this disrupts his operations enough to make a difference.”

With their task accomplished, the team began to withdraw, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the warehouse. The night air was cool against Nuria’s skin, only the heat of the flames far away warming her over. That was just a small tassel. The day after Merrill, her and Dorian would be back to work on the documents they found.

-

CULLEN

Cullen rode at the head of an official envoy as they made their way through the bustling streets of Kirkwall. The city, once his home during the reign of Knight-Commander Meredith, brought back a flood of memories. The Inquisition’s mission was clear: officially, they were here to investigate the disappearance of Meredith’s statue, but their true purpose was to uncover Corypheus’ plots within the city.

The envoy, a mix of soldiers, scholars, and diplomats, settled into a grand residence in Hightown. The opulent mansion, on loan from a noble family indebted to the Inquisition, would serve as their base of operations. Cullen took a moment to appreciate the contrast between the luxury of Hightown and the grim reality of the Gallows, where he had spent so many years.

After ensuring the envoy was settled, Cullen ventured into a nearby public square, seeking to gather his bearings and perhaps glean some information from the locals. The square was alive with activity, merchants hawking their wares, children playing, and nobles strolling leisurely. Cullen felt a familiar unease, the weight of Kirkwall’s past pressing upon him.

As he surveyed the square, his gaze fell upon a striking woman, her raven-black hair streaked with silver, speaking passionately to a group of citizens. Lady Evelina Dumar, Varric’s political rival, exuded confidence and charisma. Cullen approached, listening to her speech about restoring Kirkwall’s former glory and the importance of noble leadership.

Evelina noticed Cullen’s approach and, recognizing him, ended her speech with a flourish. She turned her piercing blue eyes on him, a polite but calculating smile on her lips. “Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition, I presume. Welcome back to Kirkwall.”

Cullen inclined his head respectfully. “Lady Dumar, it’s a pleasure to meet you. The Inquisition is here on official business, but I must admit, it’s strange to be back.”

Evelina’s smile widened. “I can imagine. Kirkwall has changed much since the days of Knight-Commander Meredith. I hope you find it a more hospitable place now.”

Cullen nodded, though he could sense the underlying tension in her words. “We’re here to investigate the disappearance of her statue. But, as always, the Inquisition seeks to aid the city in any way we can.”

As they spoke, the Inquisition’s contact in Kirkwall approached. Lord Marcus Aldridge, a noble whose family owed their titles to the Varric’s influence, greeted Cullen with a warm smile. Nuria and her two escorts worked for him. “Commander Rutherford, welcome. I trust your journey was uneventful?”

Cullen shook his hand firmly. “Lord Aldridge, thank you for your hospitality. The journey was smooth.”

Marcus glanced at Evelina, then back to Cullen. “Perhaps we can discuss matters further over dinner tomorrow? I would be honored to host you.”

Cullen hesitated for a moment, he would have left the honor to Josephine, but since she wasn’t here he had to be the lucky one to attend. But he would also have the opportunity to see Nuria, and it was too tempting to refuse. “That sounds agreeable. Thank you, Lord Aldridge.”

Isolde’s eyes narrowed slightly, but her smile remained. “I’m sure you’ll find Lord Aldridge an excellent host. And please, do not hesitate to call on me if the Inquisition requires any assistance.”

As the crowd dispersed, Cullen felt a sense of relief. The political maneuvering was draining, a far cry from the battlefield tactics he was accustomed to. He followed Marcus through the winding streets of Hightown, the noble chatting amiably about Kirkwall’s current state and the Inquisition’s influence.

-

He had been struggling with withdrawal during the journey, and without the people that supported him back in Skyhold, he felt that he was faltering. But he had an excuse to see Nuria, sooner even than the dinner. The lonely survivor of a blood ritual, an elf named Laria, was to be escorted back to the Alienage. He organized a small unit of soldiers to be led directly by him, and started for the Alienage, led by one of them, a local.

INQUISITOR

As twilight descended on Kirkwall’s Alienage, the sky was bathed in a blend of orange and purple, casting long, dramatic shadows over the narrow streets. The usual evening clamor of voices and clattering pots gave way to an uneasy quiet, a hush that seemed to hold the city in breathless anticipation. Lanterns flickered on the walls of the rundown homes, their light reflecting off the uneven cobblestones below. The mood was electric with speculation, the kind of tension that only comes with significant change.

Nuria moved through the Alienage, observing the subtle shifts in the atmosphere. The arrival of the Inquisition had stirred up a buzz that rippled through the community like a wave. She’d heard the excited murmur of the elves all day—curious, hopeful, and cautious all at once. It was clear that the Inquisition, and by extension she herself, was the topic of intense conversation.

The news about the Inquisition was mixed. Some saw it as a beacon of hope, particularly those whose loved ones had joined the ranks. Families were eager to reunite, even if only briefly. Others were skeptical, viewing the Inquisition as a tool of human politics, a pawn in the hands of the powerful. The whispers about her—Nuria—varied from admiration to suspicion. Some called her the Herald, others sniped about the ‘New Bride of the Maker,’ a title that had become an unwelcome commonality.

The most fervent topic, however, was the recent rescue mission. Rumors had spread that the Inquisition had managed to free one of the kidnapped from their Alienage. This was the kind of news that sparked hope and fear in equal measure. Most speculation centered around Laria, Talia’s sister. After all, Laria was the most recent kidnapping victim, and the thought of her return was a powerful source of hope.

As Nuria approached the entrance of the Alienage, she noticed Talia standing there, alone. Talia had been rooted in place for hours, her posture rigid, her eyes fixed on the road as if she could will Laria to appear with sheer force of will. The surrounding crowd kept their distance, giving Talia the space she seemed to need.

Nuria hesitated, sensing the charged atmosphere around Talia. She felt a pang of sympathy, she would act the same if it was her little brother. This was a moment of high tension and fragile hope. The air was thick with the collective yearning of the Alienage’s residents, their hopes pinned on the slim chance that their loved ones would return.

-

The sound of hurried footsteps sliced through the tension in the Alienage, drawing everyone's gaze. Four figures emerged from the dimming twilight: three armored men and an elven woman with a ragged appearance and a look of deep distress. Despite her disheveled state, the familiar grace in her features was unmistakable—this was Laria.

Talia’s breath caught in her throat. Her heart raced as she took a tentative step forward, her eyes wide with disbelief. Tears welled up in her eyes, reflecting the mix of relief and fear that overwhelmed her. The crowd parted, their expressions shifting from curiosity to profound empathy as they made way for the reunion.

“Laria!” Talia’s voice cracked with raw emotion, breaking the quiet. She hurried forward, arms outstretched, her body trembling with anticipation. “Is it really you?”

Laria looked up, her gaze clouded with the horrors she’d endured, but a flicker of recognition and relief broke through. She took hesitant steps towards her sister, as if afraid this moment was too good to be true.

“Talia,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Talia’s tears flowed freely as she enveloped Laria in a fierce embrace, holding her tightly as if afraid to let go. The dust of the street mingled with her tears, and her shoulders shook with sobs. The unbreakable, hard woman she knew so little was so different from the loving sister she saw now.

“I was so afraid,” Talia sobbed, her voice thick with emotion. “They said you were gone, and I didn’t know what to do. I thought I’d lost you forever.”

Laria clung to her sister, her own tears blending with Talia’s. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, her voice choked with emotion.

The scene moved many, including Nuria, who wiped away her own tears. There wasn’t a dry eye in the gathering; the shared relief and joy were palpable.

As Talia gently pulled back to examine her sister, she noticed the signs of Laria’s ordeal—her weariness, the haunted look in her eyes. Talia’s gratitude was evident, her heart full to bursting with the joy of having her sister back.

“We’re here now,” Talia said softly, her voice steadying with resolve. “You’re safe. I’m here now.”

Laria nodded weakly, her face a blend of relief and exhaustion. Talia turned her gaze to the men who had brought her sister home, settling on Cullen. His armor and authoritative demeanor marked him as the leader.

“I… I don’t know how to thank you,” Talia said to him, her voice trembling.

Cullen’s voice carried across the gathering, steady and reassuring. “There’s no need,” he said, offering a warm, empathetic smile. “It’s our duty to help where we can. We hope your sister will make a full recovery. If you need anything, just let us know.” 

He scanned the crowd, making sure his words reached everyone present. “The same offer extends to the whole Alienage. Inquisitor Nuria Lavellan is committed to making life better for the elves of Kirkwall and beyond. I’m here to be her voice and ensure that your needs are heard and addressed.”

A ripple of gratitude and hope spread through the crowd. Talia’s eyes, filled with a mixture of relief and newfound hope, locked onto Cullen. She turned back to Laria, gently wiping away her sister’s tears, as the crowd began to buzz with renewed energy. Nuria watched Cullen with a swelling sense of pride, appreciating his words. She didn’t tell him to say anything, but that was exactly what she would have wanted to say.

Cullen caught Nuria’s eye and gave her a quick, reassuring nod. Then, he turned his attention back to the men who had accompanied him—three elves from the Alienage. “Tonight, everyone from Kirkwall gets a night off,” he said with a smile. “Go and join your families.”

The three men smiled gratefully and made their way through the crowd, heading straight for their loved ones, who welcomed them with open arms and joyful embraces. The crowd, now visibly more relaxed, began to disperse.

As Cullen prepared to leave, he gave the crowd a final, warm glance. “I bid everyone a good night,” he said, turning to go. But Talia stepped forward, her voice filled with genuine gratitude.

“Please stay, Sir,” she said earnestly. “The least we can do is offer you a celebration—the best we can give at the Alienage.”

Cullen hesitated for a moment, then looked back at Talia with a softened expression. “I appreciate the offer, truly,” he said. “But I don’t want to impose. It’s important to me that you have this time with your sister.”

Talia shook her head, her expression firm but kind. “It’s not an imposition. It’s a gesture of thanks and respect. We’d be honored if you joined us.”

Cullen considered this, his gaze shifting between Talia and Nuria. Finally, he nodded, a smile breaking across his face. “Very well. I’d be happy to join you.”

-

As the night wore on, the Alienage quickly transformed into a hub of activity and preparation. Lanterns were lit, casting a warm, golden glow over the streets, and the scent of freshly baked bread and roasting meat wafted through the air. Tables were set with a variety of dishes, and the vibrant hum of conversation and laughter began to fill the space.

Amidst this bustling activity, Cullen found himself once again the unwitting center of attention. Young elven girls, their faces alight with admiration and curiosity, surrounded him. It was reminiscent of the way he had been celebrated at Halamshiral, but this time, it was in a more humble setting. The girls giggled and chattered, their eyes sparkling as they fawned over the handsome commander. They offered him little trinkets and flowers, clearly eager to capture his attention. Talia was sitting near Cullen, Laria at her side, listening and occasionally chatting him up, brushing a hand over his arm, taking maybe the whole concept of thankfulness in another direction than the one she’d imagined.

Cullen smiled politely and tried to engage with the girls, but it was clear he was somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting around for a way to gracefully extricate himself from the crowd without appearing ungracious.

Meanwhile, Nuria observed from a distance, her attention divided between the preparations for the celebration and the lively scene unfolding around Cullen. She noticed the way the young elven girls clung to him, their eyes filled with adoration. It was a familiar sight for her—one that reminded her of the gala in Halamshiral. But they were less subtle about it. It was amusing.

As she joined in with the preparations, her ears picked up snippets of conversation from the crowd.

“He’s even more charming in person, isn’t he?” one elven woman remarked with a chuckle as she arranged a platter of fruits.

“I heard he’s as brave as he is handsome,” another added, her voice tinged with admiration as she helped set out drinks.

Nuria couldn’t help but smile at the comments, feeling a mixture of amusement and pride. Cullen had a way of making an impression wherever he went, and the elven community’s reaction was no surprise.

As she helped arrange the tables and ensure everything was in order, Nuria’s thoughts wandered to the evening ahead. She was content to let Cullen enjoy the spotlight while she took care of the logistics. The celebration was a way to honor the return of Laria and to show the Alienage’s appreciation for the Inquisition’s efforts. It was also a chance to forge stronger connections with the elven community.

But Cullen didn't attract only young women, he was now fully encircled by a throng of curious elves that wanted another kind of attention. 

He handled the crowd with his characteristic calm, answering questions about the Inquisition and discussing the opportunities available to those interested in joining. He promised to relay any concerns to his team in Kirkwall and fielded requests for assistance with patience and good humor. Despite his efforts to stay focused, the constant flow of offers—food, flowers, and sweet, giggling remarks—seemed to add an extra layer of challenge to his evening.

Every so often, Cullen’s gaze would drift towards Nuria, a flicker of longing and discomfort evident in his eyes. He seemed torn between his duty to engage with the community and his desire to find a moment of reprieve from the relentless attention.

Arvan, stepping fully in the role of old woman gossiping, approached Nuria with a knowing grin. “Looks like our handsome commander has quite a few admirers tonight,” he said, his tone tinged with playful mischief.

Nuria glanced at Cullen, who was now engaged in a conversation with yet another well-meaning elf. “What do you mean?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

Arvan gestured subtly towards Cullen, who was attempting to politely fend off a young woman offering him a bouquet of flowers. “It’s pretty clear he’s been glancing this way more often than not. Seems he might have his eye on someone special.”

Nuria’s face warmed as she took in Arvan’s words. She had hoped Cullen’s attention might go unnoticed, but at least it wasn't interpreted as previous acquaintance with her. It was both comforting and embarrassing to know that people read his interest as attraction. She met Cullen’s gaze with a weak smile, and his response—an unmistakable warmth—made her heart skip a beat. Memories of their sweet moments and his heartfelt declarations of love flashed through her mind. Talia, at his side, frowned, but was otherwise too occupied with her sister to care. At least for tonight.

The young women fawning over Cullen, however, didn’t seem thrilled by her presence. Corinne, another keen observer and gossip, chimed in with a mischievous grin. “Maybe you should go talk to him,” she suggested with a playful wink. “After all, he must be quite well off.”

Nuria snorted at Corinne’s comment. If only she knew that out of all the Inquisition’s members, she had fallen for the poorest, she wouldn’t be proud of her. It was a funny twist of fate she kept to herself. She turned her attention back to Cullen, who was once again the focal point of the crowd’s admiration.

She looked around searching for her friends to have an excuse to leave, but they were nowhere to be found. She sighed.

She had agreed to give Cullen a chance, hadn’t she? As she watched him, she felt a pang of resolve. Maybe it was time to stop dwelling on the past and truly consider moving forward with him. Taking a deep breath, she decided it was time to talk to him. With a final glance at the two gossip, that looked at her with the rapture interest of a mouse looking at a particularly juicy mouse, Nuria took a step toward Cullen, still unsure.

As Nuria approached, her mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Memories of Solas lingered in her thoughts. She didn’t want to lead Cullen on, to offer him something half-hearted when her heart was still so tangled in the past. But there was a part of her—a part that longed for comfort, for a chance at happiness—that urged her to just try.

Cullen noticed her approach, and a genuine warmth spread across his face. He excused himself from the crowd, and eagerly stood to go and meet her. His eyes softened as he took a step closer, his usual commanding presence giving way to something more personal, more vulnerable.

“Hello,” he greeted her, his voice carrying a touch of shyness that caught Nuria off guard.

“Hello, Commander,” she replied, a hint of nervousness creeping into her voice as well. “Nice to meet you.” The words came out natural, the awkwardness of the conversation fir well with the cover. Two strangers looking at each other across the room, an instantaneous bond created in just one look. She was the commoner, and he the dashing commander from a foreign force. It seemed like any City Elf’s dream.

Cullen blinked, as if remembering their mission, and that they had to pretend not to know each other. A small, endearing smile tugged at the corner of his lips, and Nuria found herself smiling back. 

“Would you like to dance?” he asked, the question simple but loaded with meaning.

Nuria hesitated, but after a moment, nodded. “Yes,” she said softly, offering him her hand. “I’d like that.”

Cullen’s smile grew, and he took her hand with a gentle firmness, guiding her to the center of the celebration where others were already dancing. As they began to move together, the music guiding their steps, Nuria couldn’t help but feel the awkwardness between them. It wasn’t unpleasant, just a little tentative, like they were both figuring out how to navigate this new, uncertain territory.

They moved slowly, the dance a gentle sway more than anything else. Cullen’s touch was warm, his hand resting lightly between her shoulder blades, and Nuria could feel his nervousness, the way he was trying so hard to make this moment right. It was sweet, and she couldn’t help but feel affection for him. She had to fight her thoughts, occasionally drifting back to Solas, and tried to stay in the moment. The soft whispers, the people chuckling, it all felt a deja vu of another night that made her blush intensely. She looked down and shook herself. Here and now Nuria. Here and now.

Cullen broke the silence first, his voice soft. “I wasn’t sure you’d come talk to me,” he admitted, his eyes focused on hers, searching for something—reassurance, maybe, or a sign that he wasn’t alone in feeling the way he did.

Nuria offered a small, tentative smile. “I wasn’t sure either,” she replied honestly. “But…I’m glad I did.”

They danced in silence for a few more moments, the music and laughter around them creating a bubble of intimacy that was both comforting and a little overwhelming. Nuria could feel the weight of the looks around them, but also of Cullen’s steady presence beside her.

As the dance went on, she couldn’t help but wonder if this was what she needed—someone to ground her, to love her gently. But it would take time, and she wasn’t sure how exactly to let go of the only man she ever loved.

For now, though, she was content to just dance with him, to let the moment be what it was—a sweet, awkward step towards something new.

-

As the celebration continued, the music in the Alienage shifted to a livelier rhythm, inviting everyone to join in. The mood became infectious, and before long, people began pulling others into the group dances that were a staple of elven gatherings. Nuria, who had always loved dancing, was quickly swept into the mix, her movements graceful and effortless. The energy of the crowd invigorated her, allowing her to momentarily push aside the weight of her emotions.

Cullen, on the other hand, found himself in a less comfortable situation. He was pulled into the dance circle by a group of enthusiastic elves, and it quickly became apparent that his skills did not extend to dancing. Swaying was fine, but outright dancing? Not so much. His movements were stiff, his steps awkward and out of sync with the lively beat. He was a man who excelled on the battlefield, where every move was calculated and precise, but here, in the midst of the exuberant crowd, he was completely out of his element.

Nuria caught sight of him struggling and couldn’t help but smile. It was endearing, watching him fumble through the steps, his expression a mix of concentration and mild panic as he tried to keep up with the others.

“Come on, Commander, just follow the rhythm!” someone called out, laughing good-naturedly as they spun past him.

Cullen’s cheeks flushed, and he tried his best to follow the advice, but it was no use. He tripped over his own feet more than once, causing ripples of laughter around him. Yet, despite his obvious lack of coordination, he took it all in stride, laughing at himself along with everyone else. His usual seriousness gave way to a rare display of cheerfulness, making him even more approachable to the elves who had initially been a bit intimidated by his imposing presence.

Nuria danced her way over to him, her movements fluid and light as she effortlessly integrated into the dance. She took his hand, guiding him through the steps with a playful smile. “You’re doing great,” she teased, though her eyes were warm with encouragement.

“Great might be a bit generous,” Cullen replied, his tone self-deprecating but tinged with amusement. He tried to match her movements, but the difference in their abilities was stark. Still, he appreciated her efforts to help, and the feel of her hand in his was enough to keep him from giving up entirely.

As they danced together, Nuria couldn’t help but smile at his determination. He was out of his depth, but he was still trying.

The group dances continued, with Nuria effortlessly moving between partners, her joy evident in every step. Cullen, after stepping on yet another pair of feet, stepped back, laughter following him. Nuria danced a bit more before stepping back.

As the night went on, the celebration only grew more spirited. The elves of the Alienage danced and sang, their joy infectious, and even those who were more reserved found themselves joining in. Nuria felt a sense of belonging, a warmth that spread through her as she danced among her people, her worries temporarily forgotten. She could almost feel Grit beaming, and spirits of Hope, Love and Resilience gathering around, chasing away Despair and Fear, at least for a night.

But the joyful atmosphere was abruptly interrupted by the sound of heavy boots approaching. The music faltered, and heads turned as a group of city guards marched into the heart of the celebration. Their stern expressions and the clink of armor against weapons were at odds with the festive spirit of the evening. 

The lead guard, a burly man with a permanent scowl, raised his voice to be heard over the dwindling noise. “This gathering needs to disperse,” he barked, his tone authoritative and dismissive. “You’re disturbing the peace, and it’s past time for you all to be back in your homes.”

A murmur of confusion and disappointment rippled through the crowd. It wasn’t late, and the party had been harmless, just a rare moment of joy in a place that saw too little of it. Nuria’s heart sank, and she saw the familiar tension return to the faces of those around her, the old fear of authority, of being forced back into the shadows where they were expected to remain.

One of the younger elves, emboldened by the celebration and not yet wise enough to temper his defiance, stepped forward. “We’re not causing any trouble,” he argued, his voice shaking with a mix of bravery and fear. “We’re just celebrating—there’s no harm in that.”

The guard’s expression darkened, and he took a threatening step forward, hand on the hilt of his sword. “I said, disperse. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Before the situation could escalate further, Cullen stepped forward, placing himself between the guard and the young elf. His presence was commanding, and the guards hesitated, clearly recognizing him as someone of authority, or at least, a human in armor.

“There’s no need for this,” Cullen said calmly, though his voice held a firm edge. “These people are simply celebrating, and they have every right to do so. It’s not yet late, and there’s been no disturbance that warrants this kind of intervention.”

The lead guard scowled, clearly displeased at being challenged. “This is Kirkwall, not some tavern in the countryside. We have rules here, and these elves are—”

“Rules I'm aware of. These people are just having fun. If there’s been no crime, there’s no reason to break up this celebration.” The guard opened his mouth to argue, but the weight of Cullen’s authority—and the symbol of the Inquisition on his armor—gave him pause. The Inquisition’s reputation was well known, and the guards were no doubt aware that causing a scene could bring unwanted attention.

The guard, realizing he was outmatched, grumbled something under his breath and signaled for his men to stand down. “Fine,” he said, clearly displeased but unwilling to push the issue. “But keep it down, and don’t let it go on too long. We’ll be watching.”

The crowd, now more at ease, slowly began to pick up where they had left off. The music resumed, though it was a bit more subdued than before, the earlier joy tempered by the reminder of the ever-present tension in their lives. But there was still dancing, and the sense of community remained strong.

However, after a while the celebration started to dim, and people started dispersing. Cullen left with a last lingering smile.

-

The streets of the Alienage were quieter now, with most of the elves either heading home or lingering in small groups, sharing the last moments of the night together. The air was cooler, carrying the scent of the flowers that had been used to decorate the square.

As Nuria walked, she was soon joined by Merrill, Zore, and Sheranna. They had been at the celebration as well, and as they caught up to her, they immediately began to talk about the events of the night.

“That was quite a night, wasn’t it?” Merrill said, her voice light and cheerful. She had always been the most optimistic of the group, and her energy was infectious. “I don’t think I’ve seen the Alienage this happy in a long time. Having the Inquisition here might be the start of something.”

Nuria smiled at her friend’s enthusiasm, but her thoughts were still clouded with the events that had unfolded. “We'll see”

Zore, who was always the more cynical of the group, rolled her eyes slightly but nodded in agreement. “You sound like Kael” She says disapprovingly. Kael is Solas’ code name for the operation. “But I have to admit, I didn’t expect the Inquisition’s Commander to stand up for us like that. Most humans wouldn’t bother.” She paused, then added with a smirk, “But I guess he had a special reason to.”

Nuria smiles weakly. The night had been full of surprises, and while she was grateful for Cullen’s support, she couldn’t help but think about the future. What would happen once Corypheus was defeated and they left? Would stirring the pot mean more suffering for the people once they left?

Merrill, sensing Nuria’s discomfort, gently nudged her. “You know, Nuria, it’s okay to let yourself be happy. Cullen seems pretty nice”

Nuria looked at Merrill and then at the other two women. They didn’t understand, not fully, despite their time together. When was the last time she felt understood? Back in the clan, with her brother. Or with Solas, but she couldn’t talk with either of them.

”Tonight was a good start.” she just says with a reassuring smile

Zore grinned. “A good start, and maybe something more. I saw the way Cullen was looking at you, Ilia. I think he’s smitten.”

Nuria shrugged, but she couldn’t deny that part of her was curious about what might happen with Cullen. “We’ll see,” she repeated, trying to keep her tone light.

The four women continued their walk, the conversation flowing easily as they discussed the night’s events, the future of the Alienage, and the challenges they still faced. Nuria instead felt a raging headache find its way into her head. She suddenly missed being drunk enough to be unable to think. 

The thought of the previous night creeped in her mind. Solas must have heard her message by now. A mix of embarrassment and anxiety plagues her. She forgot. She had implied he’s immortal and covered it up badly. She blushed, she made a fool of herself. She dreaded going to the Fade tonight. Maybe she should have drunk herself to stupidity again.